


The Littlest Hunter

by bluebells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, De-Aged Castiel, Family Drama, Gen, Season/Series 04, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As punishment for disobeying, Castiel is sent back in time in the form of a young child - only to be unofficially adopted by John Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Littlest Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written [here](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/127518.html?thread=27661854#t27661854) for [](http://entropynchaos.livejournal.com/profile)[**entropynchaos**](http://entropynchaos.livejournal.com/) in [](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/)**comment_fic** , and later re-posted [on my journal](http://users.livejournal.com/_bluebells/tag/series%3A%20littlest%20hunter).

When John crashes through the doors of the old barn, rifle cocked, he's almost blinded instantly.

When he puts his arm down, John sees at least four dispossessed bodies prone in the straw. They're still twitching and John tucks the rifle against his shoulder, but that's when he sees the young boy trembling by one of the wooden support beams.

"Hey," John calls, cautious, and the boy's head snaps up.

The boy's dirt-smeared face is shining with tears in the light of John's flashlight, his dark hair sticking up everywhere and when he tries to shield his eyes from the light, John sees the blood on his palms.

He can't be more than five years old.

"Desist, demon! I'm Castiel, an angel of the Lord, and I'll smite you as well!" The child shrieks, voice cracking in defiance, and he clambers for the wooden beam behind him. John sees him reach for the bloody sigil painted there and takes aim.

This thing may be wearing a child's face, but John's no fool.

His first shot disintegrates the sigil, spraying wood and the child cries out in surprise, instantly covering his face in a curious display of self-preservation. Demons tend to turn their cheek to abuse and most monsters would be too numb to notice such a small disruption.

John lowers his rifle a fraction as the child keens, stunned, and he frowns considering the possibility....

John closes the distance between them and the boy has barely raised his head when he's splashed in the face with water from John's flask.

"Gnarr-rr-rr!" The boy snarls, rubbing his eyes.

John notes that he sounds more annoyed than pained and his expression is so familiar; it's the same pout of frustrated exasperation worn by every child who ever thought it was being treated unjustly.

Hoping that he's right, John knicks the boy's hand with his silver blade, but there's no hiss of smoke, no scent of burning flesh.

The kid roars at his feet, startled, and kicks John in the ankle.

"What are you _doing_?"

John grunts and momentarily buckles, because that was a good hit. And he was wrong. He catches himself on one knee, cursing under his breath that something so young and _human_ managed to land one on him, and the kid looks ready to take another strike when he stops, eye to eye with the hunter, and stares.

"A - Are you.... ?" The boy stammers, eyes wide and John notices for the first time that they're blue.

He abruptly thinks of Mary.

"Human, yeah," John sighs, frowning.

The boy's face pinches, he cants his head as though that wasn't the answer he expected and John's struck by a sudden, dangerous instinct to protect this stranger.

He looks around the barn. "What're you doin' here by yourself, kid?"

The boy fidgets in his too big clothes, smearing bloody fingerprints at the pockets. "I'm alone."

"... You took those demons out all on your own?"

The boy looks down, then raises his bloody palms for John to see as though that explains it all. The sleeves of his too big clothes must be what's endearing John to him, because he feels like he's looking at Dean five years ago.

He scans the kid from head to toe. "What was your name?"

"Castiel," the boy mumbles and then pipes louder, "I'm -- I... I was an angel of the Lord."

"Uh-huh." John nods, unconvinced and wonders at the number done on this kid. "Castiel, I'm John Winchester. You can call me John."

"John Winchester," the boy breathes in a hushed whisper, which John chooses to ignore.

"We should get you out of here," John says instead and glances at Castiel's fallen demons. "You did a good job, kid."

"Yes. Yes, I want to come with you."

John pretends not to notice the boy's choice in words or the way Castiel holds on to the leg of John's pant when he leads them out of the barn, through the brush, and across the road to the Impala a few hundred yards away.

Castiel keeps looking up at him, craning his neck back and John hovers a hand at the back of his head out of habit from when Sammy was this size and would easily unbalance himself with that posture.

"We'll take you into town, get you some help," John says as he opens the door and Castiel climbs in before John has time to step back for him.

Castiel buckles himself into the back seat and stares at John expectantly.

John hopes Castiel won't get blood all over the leather.

-*-

“Sam – Sammy, are you watching this?” 

From his perch on the far bed, six-year-old Sam glances from his book to the television where green humanoid turtles leap and flip through a dark alley, whooping in triumph.

Dean grins, pointing. “ _Mutant_ ninja turtles!”

Sam considers the show through his heavy, dark fringe. “Why are they mutated?”

“Because they wanted to be ninjas, duh!”

A heavy knock sounds at the door of their motel room.

Sam stills, knuckles whitening on his book cover as Dean flies for the television, flipping the volume down while his other hand reaches for the sawn-off shotgun at the foot of the bed. Heart thudding in his chest, Dean issues an order with a jerk of his head and Sam nods, sliding to the floor out of sight with his book tucked to his chest.

It’s too early, their Dad had only left four hours ago and Dean can’t remember the last time he had returned in the same night when he advised that he’d be away for days. Shotgun to his shoulder, Dean quickly tiptoes to the door’s side and waits. The gun is still a bit too big for him, but his Dad had tried to find one that Dean could steady his grip on and the first shots he had fired to test proved that Dean managed it just fine.

Breathing sharply through his nose, Dean leans his ear to the wall and listens.

“Dean –“ Sam whispers, but his brother cuts him off with a finger to his lips.

The knock comes again, two quickly, then four and Dean’s shoulders release some of their tension. A key jostles in the doorknob and Dean steps back before the door swings open.

The icy chill cuts through the warmth of the motel room like a slap in the face, but Dean tightens his jaw when his Dad steps in, narrowed eyes scanning the room.

“Dad, what happened?” Dean frowns because his Dad’s still on guard, but then Sam’s there wrapped around their Dad’s leg, oblivious and glad.

“Dad!” Sam beams, arms hooked around John’s knee.

John looks as though he’d been about to answer Dean’s question, but huffs the breath out with a grim smile, cradling the back of Sam's head.

“It’s taken care of,” John says eventually.

Dean stiffens at the sight of motion at his Dad’s back. The shotgun is up in an instant.

“Sammy, get down!”

In an ordinary situation, Sam would react without thinking, but with his arms around his Dad all those trained instincts seem to desert him. Sam blinks in confusion, hoots a stupefied sort of noise and Dean waits less than a second before shoving a small hand past his family, taking aim.

The thing in the car park yelps in panic when Dean cocks the shotgun, there’s a crash of glass bottles against the gravel but then John is yanking the shotgun out of his hands.

Dean jumps in shock, glares between the car park and his Dad.

“What the hell, Dad? Something followed you, hurry up and –“

John’s firm hand settles heavily on his shoulder and Dean stops.

What happened to ‘shoot first, ask questions later’?

He shakes his head, not understanding and looks back into the car park seeing only the Impala and the other parked cars of the motel residents. He swears to himself, thinking whatever it was had escaped.

“Castiel,” John barks and Dean squints through the poor light of the overhead streetlamps. “It’s all right. Come on out.”

Dean’s eyes widen and he looks into his father’s face. “Dad?”

“Dean.”

John squeezes his shoulder, eyes serious and Dean forces the thudding in his chest to slow down. It’s a physical ache to calm the adrenalin, the muscles in his chest and arms straining as he pulls back, but he’s learned not to argue with that voice.

“Trust me,” John says, softer this time, “It’s all right.”

Dean stares as a small child, younger than Sammy, shuffles into the light. Brown messy hair, blue eyes and dirty, he looks like his parents had dressed him for church in a small but ill-fitted suit with a cream overcoat thrown on as an afterthought. That must have been a long time ago. His clothes are stained in mud and blood.

Dean feels an awful dread settle in the pit of his stomach that he can’t explain, but this kid… this kid….

He shakes his head, knowing that this is a bad idea. “Dad….?”

But John isn’t looking at his son anymore. John jerks his head towards the open motel doorway.

“Hurry up and get inside, boys.”

Castiel’s wary gaze flits between John and his son and he quickens his shuffle to an awkward run. Dean backs into the room before him. Glancing inside, he sees Sam hovering by the television where their Dad had swept him before stepping out to intervene and he quickly steps into Castiel’s path.

Castiel barely comes up to Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s prepared for when the boy slams into him head-on with a stunned ‘mmph!’. Dean catches him before he can fall backwards.

“Take your coat off,” Dean mutters, conscious of Sam who was probably peering around to see what’s going on.

Castiel pouts in confusion, brows furrowed and Dean glances at his Dad for permission.

John understands, nodding and Castiel whines in complaint when Dean shoves the coat off of his shoulders, rolls the bloody garment up under his arm and is thankful to see there’s only mud visible on the rest of him.

“All right, come on,” Dean says reluctantly and steps aside.

Looking severely put upon, Castiel trundles inside and John takes the bloody overcoat from Dean when he follows. Dean casts one last look into the car park and locks the door behind them.

He’s surprised when he reaches for his shotgun, but his Dad stows it under the pillow of the third unused bed instead. He slides Castiel’s soiled overcoat into his duffel bag out of sight. John’s eyes are stern and Dean snorts a breath of frustration, hands fisting at his sides, he glares at their visitor instead.

Inside the considerably warmer motel room, Castiel is standing in the middle of the carpet, arms in their overlong-sleeves softly bouncing against his sides. He keeps looking between all his company and Dean thinks he sees the beginnings of a small, tentative smile.

It pisses him off.

“Dad,” Sam pipes up and Dean puffs up with a smirk because he knows that tone, he knows that face on his brother that’s so carefully, pointedly blank as he looks expectantly from Castiel to their father. That’s the face before the tantrum, the face that would normally sweep Dean into damage control, but today he thinks he’s going to let Sammy introduce himself.

Sam points outright at Castiel. “Who’s this?”

John looks between the three boys in the motel room, but Dean notices with some chagrin that his Dad is focusing on him.

“Boys, this is Castiel.”

Castiel’s lips don’t quite make it into that smile Dean can see brimming, but he looks hopefully between the brothers. Dean’s eyes narrow when Castiel’s gaze lingers on him and those blue eyes are quickly averted.

“Castiel, this is Sam and Dean,” John’s voice is level and Dean just wants him to spit out the order he knows is coming.

“What’s he doing here, Dad?” Dean interrupts when Castiel opens his mouth and quickly shuts it.

John’s look is not approving. “Castiel needs our help, boys. We’re going to help him get back to his family.”

“You sure you’re not an orphan?” Dean quips, gleeful at the dark look his father turns on him out of the corner of his eye. He can already feel the hit that’ll eventually find the back of his head, but, whatever. He can pay for it later.

Dean’s taken aback when Castiel’s face falls and he looks at his feet. “I think I _am_.”

“Why?” John asks.

Castiel can’t quite hold John’s gaze. “It – my brother told me father was dead.”

“What?” Sam blurts and Dean thinks that this is probably one of those conversations where he should cover Sam’s ears.

“So… you’ve got a brother,” Dean says loudly, intent to muffle Sam’s quiet horror, “That means you’ve still got family.”

Castiel’s fumbling with his sleeves, twisting the cuffs over and over in his tiny hands held almost to his chin. “But -- m-my brothers are no longer my brothers.”

“Brothers?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the new plural, wondering why this kid speaks so weirdly, but his father gives him no cues and then there’s an uncomfortable, familiar hiccupping whimper and he realises that Castiel is sniffling against his sleeves.

“O-oh, come on,” Sam startles and quickly goes to Castiel’s side. Sam’s not much taller than Castiel and he hovers awkwardly as the smaller boy hides his face in his dirty suit sleeves. When the whimper becomes a keen, Sam holds Castiel’s shoulder and clumsily pats the patch between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Dean deflates: Sammy, you traitor.

Feeling like he’s having an out-of-body experience, Dean recognises that’s how he comforts Sam after a nightmare, but Sam doesn’t look quite prepared to hug this stranger yet. Sam also appears to be wondering why it isn’t working as effectively as it should.

There’s something very strange happening to Dean’s family at this moment and he can’t stop it.

He bites the inside of his cheek and meets his father’s careful look of question. If he was fooling himself, he’d think he actually had a choice in the matter.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean says, quietly.

His father nods and goes to kneel in front of Castiel, laying a hand on his shoulder. Sam looks relieved for the support, but he doesn’t stop rubbing Castiel’s back, now murmuring comforting noise rather than words.

“Castiel,” John says and waits until the boy lowers his sleeves from his face. Castiel’s eyes are shining and wet and his face looks impossibly dirtier than before. “You’ve got choices. There’s a cathedral three blocks from here –“

“No,” Castiel shakes his head vehemently and Dean credits the kid with some sense.

John nods, continuing, “Well, first thing come morning I’m taking you down to the police station. If your family have reported you missing we’ll find out where you came from.”

Castiel’s lower lip trembles. “They won’t let me come home.”

He sounds so miserably certain that it makes Dean stop and take notice. He doesn’t like the sound of that and he wonders just how much his Dad asked this kid before he brought him in.

“It’s okay,” Sam chimes helpfully. “You can stay here tonight.”

Because it was pretty clear that decision had been made when John took the shotgun out of Dean’s hands.

Castiel sniffs and wipes his face roughly. When he looks up, his eyes go straight to Dean who’s still hanging back, still unsure of everything except the anxiety coiling in his stomach.

He steps up on his Dad’s other side, hands in his jean pockets and he knows his Dad can tell he’s there because he doesn’t look over his shoulder. He doesn’t need to.

“We’ll need to hose you down,” Dean says and, okay, it’s not the perfect welcome, but it’s all Dean’s got at that moment.

Before his Dad can predictably wither him with a growl or mere look, Castiel slams into him for the second time that night. Dean grunts, most of the air knocked from his chest. He squirms under his family’s bemused expressions when Castiel’s tiny arms wrap around his waist and Dean quickly pries them off.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel cries, relieved, and Dean really hopes he’s not going to make this a habit.

“Geez, personal space, dude,” Dean pushes him back towards his father and John receives him with a hand at his back. When John rises to his feet, Castiel blinks up at him, waiting. The hand at the back of his neck ruffles his hair and by the look on John’s face, Dean doesn’t think his Dad even realises what he’s doing.

Dean feels like glaring some more, so he does.

“You can borrow some of Sam’s clothes,” John decides and if it was possible Dean likes Castiel even less.

“I have a second pillow,” Sam offers and Castiel does smile then. Dean wonders at Sam’s traitorous readiness to welcome this stranger as Sam adds, “I’m six.”

“Six what?”

“I’m six-years-old! How old are you?”

Castiel frowns gently, considering it for a long moment until John says, “He’s five.”

“I’m five,” Castiel echoes quietly, but it lacks any conviction.

Sam bubbles on, asking more questions and John seems satisfied for the moment to let the two entertain each other.

Dean follows his Dad to their suitcases as John starts looking for something to put aside for Castiel. John doesn’t look at him as he searches through Sam’s clothes and Dean returns the favour.

“Dad, he talks kind of funny for a five-year-old,” Dean says, keeping his voice careful, not critical because his Dad needs to know that Dean’s only doing his job like he was taught to.

“He’s been through a lot, Dean,” John says and pulls out a clean sweatshirt, grey and plain. “I need him to tell me about it.”

And suddenly Dean understands.

This is a job. Castiel was a witness. Castiel has information. Once his Dad knew what he needed, they could find Castiel’s family and Castiel would go away.

“I’ll help,” Dean promises and John looks at him, smiles thinly and his chest swells when his Dad settles a hand on his head. His Dad knows he hates to have his hair ruffled, not like Sam.

“Take this,” John hands him the clothes and points to the bathroom, “Show him how to use the shower.”

Dean groans, but he doesn’t mind when his Dad gently shoves him forward.

-*-

Sam thinks Castiel looks funny in his pyjamas.

They’re too wide at the shoulders and tummy and every time Castiel raises his arms Sam giggles, because Castiel looks like a confused flying fox with wings under his arms. With the big old eyes of an owl.

Dean scrunches his nose at Sam from his seat at the desk when he gets Castiel into a game of ‘Simon Says’. Sam thinks Dean might know what he’s doing because he rolls his eyes and looks back at the television every time Sam flaps his arms.

Sam ignores him for the new friend his Dad brought to play with them.

“So, where’re you from?” Sam asks him.

“Up,” Castiel pauses his imitation of Sam’s aeroplane and points at the ceiling.

Sam glances up. “The roof? Like the cable repair guy?”

Castiel’s mouth hangs open and his eyes squint at Sam, head craned to the side and when he doesn’t answer for a long moment, Sam gasps, stunned with the excitement of his revelation.

“Space! You’re a space kid!”

“No….” Castiel’s frown is very disappointing.

“Alaska,” Dean tries and they both look at him, surprised that he’s joined in.

“No.”

Sam looks at Castiel’s profile and sees the band aids Dean put on his neck and chin after his shower. Sam was pretty surprised they found so many cuts on him once the dirt was washed away. Some were jagged and deeper than others; Castiel flinched every time Dean’s fingers spread the salve on his skin. Dean had eventually sat back with an impatient huff and glared until Castiel raised his pyjama top again, looking guilty. He didn’t shirk away again when Dean reached for him.

Sam saw some big bruises on Castiel’s arms and back when he helped him with his pyjamas.

Sam’s not sure why seeing all those marks have made him a little afraid of Castiel.

“Is your Dad really dead?”

Castiel’s arms fall to his sides and his attention snaps back to Sam in shock.

“Sam,” John says, voice low and warning, when he emerges from the bathroom after his shower and Sam drops his arms, feeling sheepish for being caught still playing so close to bedtime. He pokes his tongue at Castiel with a grin when his Dad turns his back, forgetting that Castiel doesn’t know their rules or their jokes.

Castiel blinks, startled, and his face crumples in terrible confusion.

The reaction is unexpected, but funny, so he sticks his tongue out again and Castiel is definitely pouting now.

When he slouches at the foot of one of the beds, back to Sam and his hands in his lap, Sam has a real worry that his Dad will see Castiel’s pouty face and get angry at Sam.

That will not happen before bedtime!

He grabs his second pillow and runs back to push it into Castiel’s arms. “You can take my bed."

Castiel makes his face at Sam’s pillow, as though he doesn’t like it any more than he likes the faces Sam makes at him when he’s being funny. Castiel just doesn’t understand that Sam is funny.

"Sam –“ Dean starts to protest, but Sam talks louder over him.

“I’m going to sleep in Dad’s bed, so you can sleep in mine tonight!”

“Sam,” He hears his Dad sigh and looks over his shoulder, heart jumping in a familiar, nervous way at the tone in his Dad’s voice.

John is crouched over his duffel bag on the floor beside his bed that he hasn’t slept in once during the week they’ve stayed at this motel. He has that tired, almost unhappy look on his face that always comes before he makes _Sam_ unhappy.

Sam sets his mouth grimly, his hands fist at his sides and he glares back, daring his Dad to say something stupid.

“Sammy, you can sleep with me tonight,” Dean says, resigned, somewhere behind him.

“No, I’m sleeping with Dad!”

Sam doesn’t notice Castiel peering around him, looking from Sam to his Dad. Sam would have been a bit appeased that Castiel was finally clutching his pillow.

“Sam,” Castiel murmurs, tentative and he shrinks behind the pillow when Sam whirls on him, not caring what he’s about to say or offer.

“You go to sleep!”

“Sam!” John barks and the answering quiver of fear in Sam’s chest is immediate.

Sam feels a hot flush from his chest to his face when he looks at his Dad again. He can’t see him very well because his vision is starting to blur from the sting behind his eyes.

“Sorry, Dad,” he mumbles.

“Don’t apologise to _me_ ,” John orders, angry, and Sam almost jerks back at the force of it.

He’s swallowing convulsively when he turns back to Castiel, his throat feels like it’s burning and he’s expecting his head to explode any minute from the throbbing at his temples.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean is standing still by the television, now turned off.

Some of the tears finally escape and he can see Castiel properly for a moment. Sam doesn’t understand the look in Castiel’s eyes, like he’s afraid as he searches Sam’s face. He’s not even the one being yelled at.

“’M sorry I yelled at you, Castiel,” Sam hiccups and crushes his lips around the sound.

“I forgive you, Sam,” Castiel says immediately, voice trembling, and Sam thinks he’s about to cry, too.

That makes Sam cry for real, which is stupid and frustrating, and when he tries to stop, he only cries harder.

He stands there for what feels like a really long minute, rubbing the heels of his hands to his eyes, angrily trying to force the tears back. Something soft presses against his chest and he realises Castiel is holding his pillow out to him, eyes intent with sympathy and at least he’s not crying.

Castiel lets go as soon as Sam buries his face in the pillow. He gets out two good sobs against the yellow and green striped pattern before large, warm hands settle on his shoulder, on his head.

“Okay, that’s enough,” John says, gruff, and rubs the top of his head, “That’s enough for tonight.”

Sam thinks his Dad could be gentler with his hair and lets out a particularly spiteful sob.

“Sam, you take my bed. I’ve got some work to do; I’ll sit at the desk,” John says and Sam scowls against the pillow when his Dad pulls him against his waist, arm over his chest and Sam can’t help the delight and relief that springs up being held like this. Being held by his Dad at all.

He really wants to stay mad, though, because his Dad’s solution isn’t what he wanted either.

He scowls and fumes against his pillow, but then Dean appears holding a cold glass of milk out to him, lips pressed in a thin line. He nods curtly at Sam to take the glass.

“C’mon, drink this. And don’t choke.”

Sam’s grip is slippery, but he feels the milk wind its cool, calm way through him and the glass is half-empty when he stops to catch his breath. He’s barely shaking anymore.

“Drink up, it’ll help you sleep,” Dean is saying as he hands Castiel his own tall glass.

Sam watches over the rim, jostling with every gulp because his Dad’s hand is still moving over his hair.

“It will?” Castiel looks deep into his glass and holds it with both hands. “How will I know when I’m sleepy?”

“Drink it, don’t inhale it, kid,” Dean adds and takes Sam’s empty glass to the sink as John moves away to finish sorting his duffel bag. “You just lie back when you’re done and let the magic milk do its work.”

Castiel takes his first sips and stops with a noise of interest. His eyes are bright and he licks his lips thoughtfully. “Hmm. This is….”

“Milky,” Sam helps and wipes his milk moustache with the back of his sleeve, “Dean gets us the good stuff.” After a pause, he offers the pillow in his arms back to Castiel. “I’m sorry it’s a bit wet now.”

Castiel shakes his head once, but Sam thinks he looks sort of grateful. “You keep it.”

“… Okay,” Sam shrugs because he’s noticed his Dad pulling the covers back for him and he likes to leap in as soon as they’re open. He’s preparing to pounce over there when Castiel surfaces from his glass again.

“Sam?”

“… Yeah?”

“Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Sure,” Sam doesn’t notice the small smile Castiel hides in his glass because he’s bounding towards the third bed in the next moment. He leaps, “Rawr!”

He pokes his tongue, grinning when his Dad quirks a smile and tucks his arms and legs under the blanket. He helps by raising his head when John pushes the pillow under his neck.

“You just sleep on my bed when you get tired, okay, Dad?”

John combs the fringe back from his eyes. “You bet, Sammy. And you just mind your temper when you talk, y'hear?”

Sam's almost forgotten he was naughty at all. He tries to look ashamed. "Yes, Sir."

His Dad pinches his nose and winks and Sam has to ask.

“Dad?”

John hums in his throat and raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Did you see Castiel’s cuts and… stuff?”

John’s expression loses some of its softness and he glances down, nodding. “Yeah.”

“… Do you think he’s an orphan?”

John presses a thumb over Sam’s eyebrows, smoothing down the furrow there. “Let me worry about that, all right?”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Sam says, smiling sleepily, “He’ll be fine because you found him.”

Sam doesn’t worry that his Dad isn’t smiling, too, because he get a kiss in his hair. “Night, Sam.”

Before his eyes slide shut, Sam sees Dean and Castiel standing at either side of Castiel’s bed. They’re each holding a corner of the blanket while Dean points at the pillow and Castiel’s frown of confusion is back.

“Get in, shut your eyes, and if you’re still stuck, start counting sheep,” he hears Dean say.

“… Where are the sheep?”

At least Castiel enjoyed his milk, Sam thinks, before he sinks into the warm black.

He wakes up sooner than he should.

He knows because it’s still black outside, the motel room is quiet and his Dad is hunched at the desk with his back to the room. The pale glow of the desk light lets him see Dean curled tightly on his side under the messy covers, snoring softly. His eyebrows are pinched like he’s thinking through a problem even in his sleep.

Sam yawns, pushes the hair back from his face and looks at Castiel’s bed, closest to him. Castiel’s blankets have barely been disturbed. Sam thinks that he must be a sound sleeper, even if his lips are moving in his sleep.

Sam frowns blearily, vision clearing of sleep as he focuses and realises that Castiel’s eyes are open.

Castiel’s eyes are darting back and forth across the ceiling, blankets up to his chin as he murmurs soundlessly.

Sam sits up and checks the bedside clock. It’s almost four in the morning, at least six hours since Sam fell asleep.

Castiel’s head turns to Sam when he stumbles to his bedside, curious, wrapped in the coverlet and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Castiel’s blue eyes are bright and clear.

“When do I stop counting?” Castiel asks, the softest breath without sound, but Sam doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

His Dad is surprised at the touch on his shoulder and turns the light down when he realises it’s Sam at his side, blinking against the glare.

“What wrong, Sammy?” John murmurs and rubs his son’s back.

Sam glances at the paper his Dad’s been studying on the desk: a funny spiderweb with fake letters and shapes all over it, scrawled in blue pen.

He rubs a knuckle to the corner of his eyes. “Castiel’s still awake.”

John straightens with a frown and looks over his shoulder.

Sam stares at the sink on the far wall and yawns. His bare feet are cold on the carpet.

“Thanks, Sammy. Go back to bed,” His Dad says and Sam is too happy to follow that order.

He falls back into the warmth of his bed and turns towards the wall with a smile. Sleep rises up like the final warm blanket and he snuggles down, certain that his Dad will take care of it; he always takes care of them.

He doesn’t see his Dad sit back in his seat, watching Castiel murmur to himself until the sun rises.

-*-

It’s been a week since Gabriel closed a hand over his throat and thrust Castiel back into 1989.

“This is all I can do,” Gabriel had gritted his teeth and Castiel found himself plopped in the stall of a diner with the table-top at eye level.

It struck him as strange that the table was so large and when he reached for the edge to push himself out of the seat, he realised what was wrong.

He had stared at his hands, then his feet and when he felt his soft face there was a terrible, twisting, falling sensation and he thought that must have been what horror felt like.

He was stumpy and miniaturised in every direction.

Everyone in the diner had stared at him when he stumbled out of the stall – a child, alone. Some people had tried to take him aside, cooing as they towered, faces pinched in concern or sympathy, but their outstretched hands startled him.

He’d bolted from that diner and discovered his pockets were empty. When he finally found a telephone it was mounted in a tall, glass box that turned out to be beyond his reach. He must have spent almost an hour straining for the phone book. His fingers brushed the metal cable of the handset at least twice before he gave up, exhausted and sore, and that was new. He had to accede that no matter how high he stretched, leaped or even flexed his wings, he wasn’t going to get high enough.

He was stunned, realising he had so little strength he couldn’t even sustain a sufficient elevation for more than a few seconds to reach the podium of the small glass box. He didn’t understand, but he reasoned the drastic reduction of his powers had either to do with his new size or Gabriel’s will, or both.

It had been a long time since Castiel was afraid.

Afterwards, he’d gotten lost in the town, which dwarfed and terrified him with its noise and crowds and eyes that followed him everywhere because _who’s this kid by himself? Can we help him? Can we take him home? Can we take him?_

He quickly sought the quiet and security of the forest, where he thought he’d settle the tremor in his chest with nature on every side, but he’d become lost there, too. When darkness fell, Castiel had waited all of three hours, coat tucked around himself although he didn’t feel the cold, before he couldn’t stand the silence and blackness any longer and called for his brother.

He called until the voice of his small vessel was cracked and hoarse.

Gabriel didn’t answer.

There were enough creatures in the forest that _did_ respond to Castiel’s cries and he quickly learned to keep moving. He couldn’t teleport very far and the more he feared, the less he could control it.

Castiel had never been so acutely aware of the human vessel as he was that night, halfway up a tree, tiny hands pressed down on the hammering of his heart. Gasping to catch his breath, Castiel rubbed a hand against the burn behind his eyes and his hands came back wet with tears. Human tears.

Sucking in icy air, teetering and certain he would fall to whatever was howling at the foot of the tree, Castiel disavowed any curious temptation he’d once had for what it would be like to be human.

He felt shattered, petrified as his fingers dug into the bark, and he had never felt so alone in his existence. Once upon a time he’d held the chorus of his brothers and sisters in every turn of his grace. When he’d relinquished that it had been the closest thing to a physical wrench. But he’d had Sam and Dean, and the faith in the righteousness of their mission had balmed the wound of his fall.

He’d had Sam and Dean and he could always call as he needed them. Now he didn’t even have a phone, he couldn’t physically _reach_ a phone and the terror was almost numbing.

On the second day, Castiel watches the sun rise. The day is cold and the wolves have lost their interest, but he’s not ready to come down from the tree.

On the third day, the burning ache to find a familiar face trumps his paralysis and he wonders if Gabriel had a plan when he sent Castiel back in time. Castiel needed to stop the apocalypse, this is the only way Gabriel would assist his brother, but Castiel doesn’t have Gabriel’s perspective.

First he needs to find the Winchesters. The thought of being reunited with Sam and Dean floods Castiel with an almost crippling hope and relief, it’s hard to remember that he’s an angel when he so firmly believes his personal survival depends on being in their presence once again.

When he eventually musters the courage to climb down the tree, he underestimates the distance and the fall cracks something in his shoulder.

He barely notices the limp in his walk when he wanders for the next three days, always taking refuge with a tree or rock at his back when the sun sets. He walks past streams, past paddocks and farms with horses and cows, and highways where cars roar like thunder. He keeps walking and tries not to listen to the fear in his heart.

On the sixth day, when he’s taken refuge by a barn at twilight, Castiel feels a dark presence rolling like a fetid mist through the air and he knows there’s a demon nearby.

It’s pure instinct that drives him to confront them. It’s not until he’s standing before them that he remembers how small he’s become.

There are several demons, as it turns out. They don’t recognise him for what he is, angels haven’t returned to Earth in their numbers of the future, but their black, grinning eyes peer deeply into him when they abandon their original prey to catch and hold him down.

They know he’s something _other_ and they keen and giggle, clawing even through his clothes, seeking what’s inside. He shivers, numbed with fear and rage, but it’s not until they take a knife to his skin that he can move again.

The grace swells like an old spring in his chest, an echo of the Host, and the demons shriek at the force that throws them back long enough for Castiel to scrawl a sigil in his blood and slap his palm at its centre.

When the light dies, he’s shaking, thinking that he’s safe until there’s a shout and he sees the man silhouetted with the rifle in his hands.

He’s scared, but this man is fast and Castiel thinks after all the millennia of glory, surviving being hunted by his brothers and stalked by the wild as a child, this will be the end of him: shot down like game.

But then Castiel kicks him in the ankle, one of many involuntary responses his body’s been leaking, and he sees the face that’s been burned into his memory like the man’s entire bloodline.

The man tells him his name is John Winchester, but Castiel already knew that.

Castiel wants to kneel and cry.

The part of him that’s small, human and flesh-bound also wants to throw himself against John Winchester. But that’s absurd.

Because he _is_ John Winchester, Castiel doesn’t run like he did at the diner when the man straightens to his impressive height over Castiel’s tiny stature. Castiel looks up into the man’s face, seeing strength, caution and concern and Castiel is ready to follow him anywhere. It’s almost as good as if Dean or Sam had found him themselves.

John Winchester takes him to his home, to his sons. When Castiel sees Dean, his instinct is to rush forward, but then Dean cocks a rifle at him and Castiel falls more than dives behind the Impala for cover.

The slight boy with light, spiky hair and suspicious green eyes is still Dean and, of course, he doesn’t know Castiel. Castiel falls against his friend with no consideration when Dean says that he can stay. Dean is the most familiar. Dean almost feels like home. Castiel just hopes that the younger Dean has half of the restraint of his older self. If such virtues are determined by physical size, Castiel might be lucky in Dean.

Sam is smaller and louder than Castiel expects, but his kindness shines like a halo. Castiel can’t help standing near, as if Sam is a real source of heat. Or reassurance. Sam oscillates between joy and rage within the beat of a moment and while it lasts, Castiel is frightened, that somehow he’s caused this family’s discontent and he may end the night standing outside, alone in the dark again.

The moment passes.

The motel calendar tells him the year is 1989.

That tells him that Dean is ten years old, Sam is six and John Winchester, one of the most infamous hunters of his generation, is alive.

Castiel pauses his count of imaginary sheep, later that night, and looks at John’s back as he hunches over his desk.

John had asked Castiel draw the sigil he had used to destroy the demons in the barn. It was powerful blood magic, but this was John Winchester and he had been about to reunite Castiel with Sam and Dean, so he couldn’t smother the song in his heart and deny John his request.

John Winchester made him safe. John Winchester brought Castiel home.

The smell of the soap Dean handed him surrounds Castiel through Sam’s borrowed pyjamas. Castiel covers his smile with the blanket’s edge and sends up a fervent prayer of gratitude, hoping that wherever his own father is, he’s safe and alive and can still hear the prayers of his children.

Despite the closed doors and curtains drawn over the windows, Castiel can smell the change in the air. Dawn is breaking around their motel, the first shades of grey lifting the black of night and his fingers relax their grip on the coverlet under his chin.

Ever since the forest, he’s felt safest under the plain light of day. The dark plays tricks on his imagination that clench his heart so tight, but the horrors he doesn’ t understand about this world always seemed less scary in the morning.

Castiel has almost counted to seven hundred thousand imaginary sheep when he realises Sam and Dean’s father has left his chair and come to the foot of Castiel’s bed. John is not-quite-frowning, hands in the pockets of his baggy pants and Castiel stares right back. He wonders what John is thinking and if he took any rest last night.

Now that John is here, looking down at him, it must be time for Castiel to work.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position and folds the blanket back to his knees. The thin pillow crumples against the wall at his back and Castiel reaches behind himself to flatten it against the stained wallpaper comfortably.

“Is it time to visit your police station, John Winchester?”

“Did you sleep at all, Castiel?” John murmurs so that neither of his sons stirs.

Castiel subconsciously rubs his eyes before curling his hands in his lap. His throat feels dry. “I am an angel, I don’t rest.”

John still looks suspicious, but he nods as if to humour Castiel’s assertion. “And how does that work – being an angel?”

Castiel turns his head, straining his ear as though he hadn’t heard the question clearly. “Angels draw their grace and strength from the Host and, ultimately, our Father.”

“That’s why you don’t sleep?”

Castiel nods.

“So, Castiel,” John says quietly, before Castiel goes on, and settles side-on at the edge of the bed. He considers his words before his eyes flick up and Castiel sits up straighter, ready for the assessment in John’s gaze. “How can we tell the difference between an angel and any kid on the street?”

“Oh,” Castiel answers immediately, “An angel is gifted strength and righteousness by their grace -- and they don’t usually look like….” He glances down at himself, lips pursing apologetically that John Winchester has to see him in this lesser way.

Castiel can see John cataloguing that away, but he doesn’t deter from his course of inquiry.

“How do I tell?” John gestures with the scrap of paper where Castiel had scrawled the Enochian sigil, “You told me that anyone could do this. Can you show me something only an angel could do?”

Castiel remembers when Dean made a similar request of him at their first meeting in that barn so many months ago. He glances between the brothers, still sleeping, because before John had turned the key off in the ignition the night before, he’d turned to Castiel, lips set in a firm line and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to mention angels, demons or hunting in front of Sam, his youngest.

Castiel would have agreed to anything, but it had startled him at first. Then he remembered the stories that John Winchester had tried to shield his youngest from his obsession and the dangers that followed him home from that life. Dean had proven he was ready, shotgun at his shoulder, for anything that did.

History showed that approach had worked for a while.

He exhales slowly, focusing his strength to flex his wings like arms reaching above his head in a stretch, just barely beyond the skin of his vessel enough to show, but not to break free. He doesn’t know what would happen if he parted from Jimmy’s vessel in this form; Jimmy doesn’t even share it anymore.

The light bulb at the desk hums and John looks at it when its light intensifies and blinks dark for a moment. Castiel has become accustomed to a certain reaction, but when John looks back at him and only frowns expectantly after a pause, Castiel is concerned.

“Well?”

Castiel watches the light bulb return to its standard glow and he whirls on the bed, finding no shadows cast on the wallpapers behind him. His mouth falls open and he shakes his head, not understanding, because he feels as though he’s opened his entire chest; the room should be thrown in the shadow of his wings, but…

There’s nothing.

His fists balls up the pyjama shirt in the middle of his chest.

“This was my punishment for rebellion. But although I am…” His dry throat tightens and he rubs a thumb over the ugly floral mustard print of the coverlet, “Although I’m less than I was, I do not require rest. I’d expected more.”

John is definitely frowning now, but he picked up on at least one point in Castiel’s whisper. “You rebelled?”

“I fell to defend my friends. The angels wanted to misuse them,” Castiel says quickly and he can’t help glancing at Dean, who sleeps on, curled in a ball on his bed at Castiel’s left. Dean scowls in his sleep, his shoulder twitches from an impression of his dream and Castiel stops himself from reaching for Dean’s temple. He doesn’t have the ability to brush the bad dreams away anymore.

“I was severed from our Father and the strength of the Heavenly Host. I have my friends. But I’m alone.”

It still hurts to say it aloud.

The sting behind his eyes is back and he’s learned by now what that means. He rubs the heel of one hand against his eye, roughly, and distracts himself with the memory of how good it felt, after so long, to ride in Dean’s Impala the night before. John is much smoother when he steers around corners, Castiel had noted that Dean often drove in a hurry and Sam would sway in his seat from the momentum.

John sighs, resigned.

“Well, Castiel, I don’t know what to tell you, but you seem like a pretty ordinary kid to me. I don’t know who taught you to hunt with this sort of thing –“ John waves the sigil again, “—but when we find them I’m goin’ have some words. You’re too young to hunt by yourself, too young by a long shot.”

Castiel’s lips are scowling against his will, he can feel the sting behind his eyes threatening to break and he consciously battles to regain control of his expression. Take a deep breath, slow down, slow down…. Too many base instincts and controls have already deserted him in this smaller form.

“No,” Castiel’s voice sounds choked to his own ears and he wrings his pyjama top between his hands until it feels like he’ll leave burns there. “I’m supposed to save you. We have to avert the apocalypse!”

“Whoa,” John shushes and glances back at Sam when he stirs with a small sound. John watches his son, careful, until Sam settles on his back, eyes still shut and smacking his lips with an arm flung above his head.

John looks back at Castiel, pitying, voice lower than before, “I don’t know what you were taught, but there’s no apocalypse underway; it’s just the same old song of demons over the dashboard.”

“Not yet!”

“Castiel,” John says, quietly but firm. “There is no apocalypse. And you are _not_ an angel; you’re just lost.”

Castiel swallows thickly, flushing and trembling with frustration. He doesn’t know what to do, how he can demonstrate what he is without his powers. Because if John Winchester doesn’t believe him, he won’t let Castiel help him, he’ll send Castiel away and the Winchesters will live the same path that leads them to the Apocalypse.

He doesn’t know how, but he won’t let that happen.

John goes to Dean’s bedside and squeezes his son’s shoulder. Dean wakes swiftly, head leaping from the pillow. His shoulders tense when he scans the room quickly and eventually looks up at his father, confusion clear on his face.

“Dad?” Dean’s voice is scratchy from sleep.

“The sun’s getting up, take Castiel for a run. He thinks he’s a hunter –“

“I’m an angel!” Castiel whispers harshly and Dean frowns at him through bleary eyes.

“-- Let’s see what he’s got,” John pats Dean’s shoulder and Dean nods in assent, still squinting through the weariness of sleep. His eyes barely stay open.

Dean’s grumpy, tired expression makes Castiel feel terrible. He leans towards Dean when John returns to his desk for a writing pad. “You are not required to take me on this run, Dean. You do not look rested.”

Dean yawns, a gaping stretch that threatens to dislocate his jaw. When he resettles, his face is unimpressed if still a bit glazed. “Dad said to take you running. So get changed. We’re going running.”

Castiel slumps as Dean throws off his covers, shivering against the morning chill before he staggers towards the bathroom. He makes no effort to wake Sam on his way past and Castiel suspects this is another activity that Sam is exempted from.

It couldn’t be a terrible life.

Because running, it turns out, is not as easy as humans make it look.

Castiel would hazard there are many angels who are unaccustomed to even a leisurely stroll.

When he didn’t teleport in his former glory, Castiel would walk everywhere he could. He can move swiftly in a battle, duck and weave, but to run….

Running is an entirely different sort of motion. It requires much coordination to achieve an efficiency of movement that Castiel is presently lacking and he feels like he’s flailing awkwardly as he sprints down the sidewalk to catch up with Dean.

At least Castiel was able to borrow a pair of Sam’s sneakers. John had looked surprised when they fit and gave Castiel another of those looks that made Castiel conscious he might have done something wrong. Again.

“You’re going to be tall when you grow up,” John had said and Castiel had flushed at the unimpressed eyebrows Dean raised at him before he went outside to wait in the parking lot.

Castiel notices when Dean’s eyebrows go into his hairline like he’s about to roll his eyes at some of the things John says. He feels embarrassed, almost enough that he wishes John wouldn’t say them. Except that each one softens the memories of the past week, the lingering ache in his shoulder from the fall, and Castiel snatches them like rations of kindness. It’s worth even Dean’s derision.

Judging by Dean’s irritated huff at Castiel’s dejected state, Castiel judges it best not to show any response to Dean’s frequent exasperation, or his flash of irritation each time he realises that Castiel’s slipped behind on their run.

They’re two streets down from the motel and Dean has an easy, loping stride. He’s barely broken a sweat and he keeps, unintentionally, easing ahead. Belatedly, Dean will look over his shoulder, turning when he realises just how far Castiel’s fallen behind again, sort of sigh, before jogging back to keep in step with him.

“You’re not even sweating: you can go faster,” Dean observes and Castiel actually glares up at him.

Castiel thought it would be nice having an opportunity to talk alone with Dean, instead he’s finding himself resenting his friend more than ever before. Dean doesn’t seem interested in talking and even if he was, Castiel doesn’t think he could find the breath for it. Funny, he’s never really noticed the need for air before.

He briefly considers kicking Dean in the ankle, one of the stranger impulses of this smaller form.

“Your legs are longer than mine,” Castiel says and is grateful that he left his coat back at the motel.

“ _Your_ legs are just too short,” Dean counters and Castiel almost trips over an invisible crack in the sidewalk.

Dean catches his arm and steadies him without breaking his stride.

If he can do that, Castiel believes that Dean truly is the saviour of mankind. Even if he _is_ laughing at Castiel under his breath.

“Come on,” Dean slaps Castiel a little too hard on the arm and points at a white-painted bridge at the top of the hill in the near distance, “Race you to the bridge.”

“Why does Sam not run with us?” Castiel asks, heart skipping a beat at the word ‘race’.

Dean sneers in amusement. “’Cause Sam’s a pansy! C’mon, Cas, run as fast as you can!”

Castiel’s head snaps up at the familiar address, but Dean doesn’t see his shock because he’s bolted as though a horde of hellhounds have descended at his heels. Castiel doesn’t have time to nurse the bittersweet twinge in his chest because Dean is almost halfway to the bridge.

Castiel takes off after him.

He knows he’s not going to beat Dean to the bridge, not even catch up to him, but he feels compelled to run anyway when Dean reaches the bridge, turns, and calls for him to keep going.

Castiel has a detached flashback to Heaven under Zachariah’s interrogation as he forces his legs to obey his command; he can feel the strain on this vessel and his entire body feels like it’s on fire.

Years seem to pass before he reaches the bridge and Dean is grinning, actually grinning at Castiel, as he puts his hand up after Castiel almost runs into him full-force.

“Great work, buddy,” Dean congratulates and high fives Castiel’s palm when Castiel just pants and stares at him dumbly. “You’re kinda lopsided, though, d’you do something to your shoulder….?”

Dean halts, squints at him in concern and Castiel wonders why Dean looks grey and hazy all of a sudden.

“Dude, you don’t look so – whoa!”

The world tilts and Castiel’s knees have just hit the ground when Dean’s large hands clamp around his shoulders. He moans unhappily, boneless and dazed, as Dean pulls him upright, laughing.

Dean should not be laughing. Castiel feels betrayed.

He really wishes his body would respond to his commands, he had never battled his vessel for such a simple motor response before. In the end Dean has to drape him over the wooden railing for support. Castiel pouts, chin and arms thrown over the wooden beam as he squirms and waits for the feeling to return to his extremities.

“Just take deep breaths – that’s it," Dean laughs and slaps the wooden rail as he hops up next to him.

Castiel ignores Dean’s chortling noises and focuses on the rolling calm of the small brook under the bridge instead. It’s narrow and shallow enough that he can see the rocks on the river bed and the few cans, glass bottles strewn there. The early morning sun glints off the water’s reflection like a shade of diamonds and the birds’ rising chorus in the surrounding trees tells Castiel the world is truly waking up around them now.

Dean leans forward, hands on the rail and sucks in a deep breath with a happy sigh, shutting his eyes. Castiel squints up at him, the sun now climbing steadily overhead.

“You run well, Dean,” Castiel eventually says and Dean grins, pushing his chest out.

“Gotta know you can beat a fast retreat to live and plan the better hunt next time around. If you’re – you know – still here tomorrow, we can run again. Gotta work on your stride. You suck,” Dean glances down at Castiel, oblivious to the way Castiel’s heart leaped when Dean spoke of tomorrow. Dean stares at him for a moment then pushes two fingers to Castiel’s forehead. He frowns when he pulls his hand back and rubs his fingers together.

“You’re not sweating at all.”

Castiel manages to straighten against the rail and wipes the back of one hand across his forehead. It indeed comes back dry.

Dean has a thin sheen on his brow, under his eyes and above his upper lip.

“Maybe it’s because you’re an angel,” Dean sneers and punches Castiel lightly in the shoulder.

“It may be,” Castiel echoes, lamenting that his status doesn’t exempt him from the tightness in his chest that’s only just starting to ease, or the dryness in his throat. His hand goes to his neck and he coughs lightly, frowning at the tight, uncomfortable itch that doesn’t pass.

A small flask appears in front of his face and Castiel pinches his face at Dean in question.

“For your throat,” Dean explains, “Twist the cap.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel is so thirsty at the suggestion of a drink, he takes the flask and immediately tips it back. The first swig scalds his dry throat like liquid fire and he coughs it back up in a spray, almost dropping the flask into the river.

“Darn, wrong one, sorry,” Dean snatches the flask back and rifles in the lining of his jacket until he comes up with another identical flask. He twists the cap off this one himself because Castiel is still coughing, now a deep throaty wheeze that’s doubled him over against the rail. Dean pushes the flask against Castiel’s hand, but eventually sighs and steps in when Castiel can’t take it.

“Here, don’t choke.”

Castiel feels Dean’s hand at the back of his head as Dean tips the flask against his lips and this time, cool, clean water rolls down his tongue. It clears the scratching burn of the first drink and Castiel coughs in relief before taking a few more sips.

“Take it,” Dean orders and Castiel wrap his fingers around the flask, tipping it up for a longer drink.

“What was in the first one?” Castiel finally manages when he can speak again.

Dean shoots him a hard look, eyes alight. “Tell my Dad and I’ll kick your ass.”

And Castiel really believes that he would. Dean looms particularly well over Castiel’s current form and that’s still strange, to regard Dean as the taller brother.

So, he keeps his mouth shut, looks away and takes another long sip of the water in Dean’s flask.

“So, what’s your story?” Dean demands, his outburst apparently the spur he needed to broach the subject. “What do you want with my family?”

Castiel looks up at him in soft surprise.

“What do I want?”

“I said: what do you want with my family?” Dean says harshly and jumps down from the rail. He plants his hands on his hips, the motion pushing his jacket up. “I know you’re not a demon because you’re drinking my holy water from a silver flask, so what is it? Your family dump you? You just looking for a place to stay? ‘Cause we’re no charity, kid.”

It stings, but it’s a fair question. Castiel stares at him and he’s not sure quite what he could say that would make sense to this young Dean. What could he say that would have any meaning, that Dean could care about… and still let Castiel stay with them?

Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, he hasn’t quite mastered the one-eyebrow quirk yet.

Castiel looks at the flask in his hands and lowers it to his chest.

“Your name is Dean Winchester, you love seventies and eighties rock music; something you take from your father. You’ll pass through at least twenty schools before you leave high school and on your eighteenth birthday, you’ll inherit the Chevy Impala from your father. Two years from Christmas, your brother will give you an amulet for Christmas that will be crucial to finding _my_ father. The amulet was intended for your father, but he doesn’t come home on Christmas, so Sam gives it to you instead.”

Dean is staring at him like he’s sprouted a second head.

“Did you just make that all up? I mean… everyone knows I love Led Zeppelin. And Dad would _never_ give me the Impala,” He says, bitterly annoyed.

“No, I’m from the _future_ ,” Castiel says, but Dean gives a sharp bark of laughter.

“The future? Where’s your DeLorean? Is Doctor Brown your Dad? Do you even _have_ a last name?”

Castiel stares, trying to connect the dots and eventually gives up, shaking his head, but it’s a familiar confusion when it comes to Dean’s cultural references.

“Dean, I know these things because in the future you’re my friend. You told me and you’ve taught me so much more than I knew about this world. I want to help. I can protect you,” Castiel appeals, but he sounds a bit shrill even to his own ears and he lets his arms drop back to their sides. He can only imagine how he must look to John and Dean, a child proclaiming its importance like any youth with an overactive imagination.

It’s no wonder they don’t believe him. He probably needs their protection more right now.

“And how were you going to protect us?” Dean asks, giving Castiel a significant look from head to toe. “You can’t even beat me in a race.”

“I can do other things,” Castiel defends, not quite catching the petulant ring in his voice before it escapes.

“Like what?” Dean taunts with a cocky shrug and folds his arms.

“I know things you don’t. I know things that will save us – that will protect your Dad and Sam in the course of their future,” Castiel quickly amends, “And I can travel through time and space!”

Dean’s eyes widen comically, but Castiel thinks his impressed air is ingenuine. “Wow, can you fly, too?”

Castiel glances to the side, considering his recent failed attempt with the tall phone box. “… No.”

“Okay, okay…” Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, holds his hands in front of him, giving Castiel one last chance. “If you’re really an angel, then tell me something about us now that only _we_ could know.”

Castiel studies Sam’s worn sneakers and rakes his memory, but seeing Dean like this only forces him to recall the last time he returned with the brothers and saw his parents as they once were.

His parents. Castiel hopes it’s enough.

“When you were four years old, your mother was killed in Sam’s nursery by a yellow-eyed demon.”

Dean bristles at the mention of his mother, Castiel hurries on, seeing Dean’s hands ball in fists at his sides.

“Sam was six months old,” Castiel searches Dean’s face for any clue if this will clear his doubt, “It’s the reason that your father became a hunter.”

There’s silence for a long moment and Dean narrows his eyes. “Our family’ve been hunters all our lives. It started way before.”

It hadn’t occurred to Castiel that perhaps John hadn’t shared the truth of that fact with his sons.

“No, you were four. Before that, your father didn’t know about the supernatural. You know the yellow-eyed demon is the reason he keeps hunting; I can tell him about it."

Dean’s lips are pressed in a thin line when he cocks a sceptical eyebrow, and just like that, it’s like looking into a mirror to the future. “Oh yeah?”

Castiel holds the flask out to him. “The demon's name is Azazel.”

Dean stares at him openly and eventually takes the flask back, holds it loosely against his stomach. “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth… but I’m gonna ask my Dad when we get back.”

Castiel nods, that’s a good idea. After all, John Winchester wouldn't lie, especially to his son. “I will never lie to you, Dean,” he promises. Dean gives him a funny look then, like he considers Castiel could actually be telling the truth. “I’ll help protect your family any way that I can.”

Castiel can see Dean considering that before he thrusts his chin out and extends the flask back to Castiel. “You need it more than I do. Um. Don’t lose it, I’ll want it back.”

It’s a small gesture, but Castiel accepts the olive branch with a grateful smile, presses the flask to his chest. Dean averts his gaze from the embarrassing display, hands awkwardly twitching at his sides before he glances to the sun, then the watch on his wrist.

“We should return before your father grows concerned,” Castiel says.

Dean looks up from his watch with a snorted laugh. “Does everyone talk funny like you in the future?”

“… No, it’s… it’s simply the way I –“

“We’ll work on that,” Dean dismisses and Castiel has to ask.

“Dean? Do you believe that I’m an angel?”

The pause before Dean answers gives Castiel some hope, but then Dean shrugs. “Dunno yet.”

Castiel’s heart sinks, but he understands. Actions mean more than words, after all, especially amongst children and he hadn’t managed to demonstrate any substantial display of power when John or Dean asked him to.

Dean casts a final glance at his watch and seems to come to a decision. “Listen, we’ve still got time: if we run now, we’ll get to the baker before it opens.”

Castiel despairs a little at the mention of another run and shakes his head. “Why do we need to visit the baker?”

“Breakfast, dude! Don’t they have pie in your future?”

Oh.

How could he have forgotten that he was speaking to Dean in the context of bakeries?

Castiel glances over his shoulder back the way they had come. “Shouldn’t we return to the motel?”

“Dude, you’ve just shoved a fairy tale down my throat, I need some pie to wash it down,” Dean says and his tone leaves no room for argument. “I’ll even get you some; you look like a cherry kinda kid.”

Castiel is touched by the considerate thought. “… Do we have to run?”

“I had to get up at the ass crack of dawn for you; we’re running for pie. C’mon, we’ll get in trouble if we’re not back on time,” Dean waves a hand for Castiel to follow and takes off with a spring in his step.

Castiel follows, he hasn’t had time to consider the effect every time Dean summons him by that most perfect and familiar of nicknames, but he doesn’t think it would matter what Dean called him.

He fell for Dean, he’ll always follow.

If he had a choice, he would follow at a more leisurely pace because Castiel’s legs finally give in on their way back to the motel and John asks why there are cherries in Dean’s hair when they come through the door with Castiel on Dean’s back.

Castiel’s fairly certain that Dean didn’t mind carrying him until it led to the exposure of their pie detour.

Dean forgets to ask for the return of his flask in the ensuing interrogation wherein John is unimpressed that Dean strayed from his mission and Sam, now awake, bounces around demanding his own serving of pie until John silences him with a firm look.

In the end Sam makes them all instant cocoa and buttered toast. Castiel thoroughly enjoys his breakfast until he burns his tongue on the cocoa and Dean fetches him a glass of water instead.

Sam complains that Dean stinks, but he wants to run with them tomorrow if Castiel gets to go again.

John and Dean stare at the youngest Winchester, but Sam stands his ground and just asks Castiel to pass the butter.

Castiel would be grateful for the company (if they let him stay until tomorrow), unless Sam turns out to be a running prodigy like Dean. Although, then Sam and Dean could distract each other with their competition and not notice Castiel strolling after them.

Dean looks at his father and John agrees, but from the looks on their faces, neither of them seems to expect Sam’s conviction to last the night.

If it meant the difference between staying and going, Castiel would run without complaint.

He would run as fast and as far as they told him to. In a heartbeat.

John murmurs something about needing another pair of sneakers for them.

Castiel is too distracted by Dean’s cocoa gargling abilities to really notice.

-*-

John finishes the tail of a thought in his notes against Castiel’s sigil and throws the pen down on the writing pad of his journal.

Some of the symbols are familiar, concerned with seeking a form of energy and one of the scrawls looks close to an invocation. But John’s searching for the meaning when combined with those foreign characters. Castiel’s sigil demonstrates a completely different grammatical form of magic that has him stumped.

Because, unless his judgment is off, the little he _does_ understand don’t suggest the outcome of killing a demon.

John thinks of that piercing light, the shadow of the demons as they fled those bodies convulsing in the hay.

Or had it only been shadows?

John tosses the journal and reference tome into his duffel bag under the desk. It huffs back a pungent cocktail of herbs lined to discourage Sam’s curiousity.

He’s not getting anywhere. He sighs and looks over his shoulder to where Castiel is standing with Dean by the window.

Castiel’s face is dazed, like he’s focused on something faraway other than the towel Dean’s roughly drying his hair with. Dark, wet hair hangs in his eyes and he squeezes them shut when Dean rubs the towel over his face, pushing his fringe back.

John thinks Castiel’s been put through more showers in the last twelve hours than he’s seen in the past week. The kid has come out two shades paler every time.

Dean squashes Castiel’s face into the towel and sniggers under his breath when Castiel scowls unhappily.

 _“Dean,”_ He whines and leans away from the offending towel hand.

He gets the towel rubbed in his face again for his complaint. John considers his eldest and the twisted smile on his face. Dean’s attention is only divided when he glances to check Sam’s still occupied with the book on his bed.

He does well.

John leans back in his chair and catches Castiel’s eye, beckoning him to the desk.

“Castiel.”

Dean grunts in annoyance when Castiel bolts. He throws the towel over the kid’s head as he flees and there’s a lean in Castiel’s side, a limp that shows he’s favouring his left when he rounds the bed to John’s knee.

Dean had been right. John feels Dean had more to tell him than just the kid's bung shoulder, but then Castiel had re-emerged, dripping from his shower, and it obviously wasn't something he wanted to discuss with either Castiel or Sam in earshot.

“Hands out, palms up,” John says.

Castiel’s offers his hands. Leaning forward in his chair, John pats them dry with the towel still hanging off his head and peers closely.

He uncurls Castiel’s fingers from the gash on his palm and scrutinises where the kid had cut himself to paint the sigil. He’d used the same hand to trigger the spell and John knows Dean spent a good session of the previous night seeking out splinters with a pair of tweezers.

He turns Castiel’s hand over and runs a thumb over the tiny cut he’d made to test the boy against silver.

It’s almost twelve hours later and both wounds are still threatening to weep.

John frowns and looks into the boy’s face. Castiel’s wide blue eyes are watching him expectantly and John has to look back to his hands. What was it about kids and their ability to stare right into a man, past his words to a truth he hadn’t discovered yet himself?

Sam was the same. John couldn’t know all the answers. Most times he let Dean fill the quiet.

Castiel could be sick. He could be suffering one of those syndromes that made it difficult for his blood to clot. John redresses the wound. Castiel’s face pinches with a disgruntled whine as the bandages wrap tightly.

“I want to look at your shoulder.”

Castiel glances at his left arm warily, like his injury is something he expected to hide better, but he doesn’t protest when John lifts it experimentally.

He finds the point when Castiel winces, startled. He’s frowning in surprise at his own arm where it’s stopped just shy of straight at the shoulder and John waits for the discomfort to fade before he tries again. His other hand braces Castiel’s elbow.

This time Castiel actually cries out, small body folding around the arm in John’s grasp.

Not a good sign.

John presses his left arm back to his side.

“C’mere,” John lifts the back of Castiel’s shirt and confirms his suspicion at the blotched patchwork of dark bruises from the joint to his shoulder blade that creep towards his neck and down his back.

They’re darker than the night before and worse than John had suspected.

Those were only the bruises John could see around the bandages over larger cuts and scrapes suggesting Castiel had run into something with claws.

Castiel practically whimpers at the clinical push of John’s fingers at his shoulder.

“Dad. C’mon,” Dean shakes his head, like he’s asking John what he thinks he’s doing.

John gives his son a pointed stare reminding him that he knows exactly what he’s doing. “He’s torn the ligament. Give me the sling from the other med kit.”

Dean scoops the bag from between the beds and John catches it in one hand.

“Ligament?” Castiel echoes, voice strained.

“It heals,” John eases the sling over his head and sets his arm in its brace.

“Dad, you still going to the police station?” Sam asks from where he’s propped against the headboard of his bed, a large hard cover book in his hands. John can’t see the title but he thinks those are drawings of bunyips on the page.

“Yep.”

“You coming back after?”

Sometimes a job found him without much of a chance to get back to his boys. If it happened today, he wasn’t sure what he’d do with Castiel.

“We’ll see.”

“Is Castiel coming back, too?”

John and Castiel exchange a look. The kid’s eyes search his face and John settles a hand on his head, just a bit too heavily so John doesn’t have to look into that bright blue gaze. He forgets a moment about the bruises on Castiel’s neck and shoulders as Castiel bows under the hand in his hair. Kid doesn’t complain, just sort of grunts.

“Let’s go.”

-*-

For some reason, John thought realising his own injuries had helped Castiel hold his tongue.

When he was with the boys, John had noticed Castiel was rapt to sit and watch. John wondered if he’d been around many siblings or kids his own age. Whatever had made him shy obviously became a non-issue as soon as soon as he was alone with John and Castiel was again like any other five-year-old.

“Why must I sit in the back seat, John? You allowed me the shotgun vantage last night.”

At least Castiel wasn’t insisting on ‘John Winchester’ at every breath anymore.

“ _Ride_ shotgun. You’re too small.”

“But last night—“

“Last night it was late and dark and we weren’t driving to a police station. Understand?”

John glances up in the rear view mirror and sees the edge of Castiel’s reflection pinch with displeasure.

John hadn’t _consciously_ stuck him at the opposite back corner, as far from the driver as possible. The seatbelt came up almost too high across his chest and John would be lucky if he pulled in at the station and none of the other cops noticed his passenger probably should have been riding with a booster seat.

They hadn’t owned a booster seat since Sam outgrew Dean’s inherited toddler chair at age four. After that, they stacked him on clothes, books and blankets until Sam wouldn’t have it anymore. John’s not sure they have enough of anything to improvise like that again….

“Castiel, when we get to the station, you follow my lead,” John says firmly, seeing the sign for the station on the corner of the upcoming intersection, “Don’t speak to anyone. Keep your hands by your sides, don’t take anything, don’t _touch_ anything. Just stick by me.”

“I will stick by you,” Castiel parrots firmly. It’s as good as a ‘Yes, Sir’.

“And not a word in the station about angels, demons or the apocalypse. We don’t need any social services turning up to claim you for the state. You’ve got to tell the _truth_ now, or we can’t find your family. You understand?”

“… Yes. I -- no.”

“Yeah?” John slides into a parking space out the front of the police station. He turns the key off in the ignition and twists around to his passenger in the back seat. “What did I just say?”

Castiel is looking at his hands in his lap. If he was older, John would read his expression as resignation.

“But I _told_ the truth: I can't return to my... _family_. They won’t take me back, John.”

His eyebrows draw together as he scowls and John doesn’t want to say anything that’ll take them steps back if this kid starts crying again.

John looks at Castiel’s hands wrapped thickly in bandages. He twists back around to the front and unclips his seatbelt. The chances were still fair this kid had some decent kin to take him in.

“We’ll find a place for you.”

John strides through the front door of the police station five minutes later with Castiel at his heels. He flashes a badge at the front desk. "Officer Keaton, FBI.”

The young man behind the desk blinks dispassionately at the shiny gold metal in John’s wallet. Glances over John’s leather jacket, denim and hiking boots. “Working on your day off, huh?”

“I need to check your missing persons database. Do you have federal access here?”

The desk clerk glances down at Castiel who is watching a burbling coffee machine dribble through its morning filter. “Is it FBI’s ‘bring your kid to work’ day?”

“You must have missed the memo.”

The young man shrugs like it’s not his problem and reaches for a form in a stack behind him. “Looks like you were at the wrong end of a fight for the last cookie, little man,” He nods at Castiel’s sling and slaps the yellow form down on the desk, “Fill in your access form, I’ll need to clear it with the boss and the boss of your database. If she’s working today.”

The plastic chair wheels squeak when he pushes back from his desk and sets off. Maybe to find out about attendance of the database boss.

John’s hand flies over the form as he completes the fields with enough blend of fiction and facts – ID numbers, stations and staff names of hunters he knows in the right positions who will back up his alias if it’s ever checked. Or at least leave enough of a smoke screen for the time they need to disappear.

“Are you really of the FBI?” Comes the whispered question at his knee.

“I am today,” John mutters under his breath and signs at the bottom.

The young man sidles back to his desk a moment later and regards John’s handiwork with a cursory eye. He takes the pen, witnessing the document and jerks his head in the direction of an important-looking glass office behind him. “Boss wants a word." 

Castiel bumps against his knee. John draws him back to look him in the eye, hand light on his shoulder.

“Stay outside by the door where I can see you,” John instructs and Castiel is nodding when the clerk clears his throat apologetically.

“Sorry, man, you should really bring him with you. Station policy – we can’t have unsupervised aliens on the premises.”

“You’re in a police station, not a foreign country, boy.”

“I’m not even a cop! I’m just the desk guy.”

John pushes Castiel forward with a hand behind his good shoulder. “Desk guy. Supervise.”

The guy stammers in bewilderment and regards the kid as John pushes past. He stops at the Captain’s door, grip closing on the handle when something occurs to him. The clerk and the five-year-old are staring at each other and from their faces, John thinks it’s clear who’d be causing concern.

“No candy,” John narrows his eyes at the clerk who just sort of winces and looks at Castiel like he’s toxic hazard that needs a quick disposal.

Castiel tolerates the expression for a moment, but quickly seems to decide the coffee machine still wins for his attention.

John cocks an eyebrow at the clerk’s wary profile and pushes into the Captain’s office.

“Captain,” John flashes the badge one more time before shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, “Officer Keaton, FBI. If it’s not too much inconvenience, I require access to your federal database of missing persons. I’ll be out of your hair in ten.”

The man behind the desk looks nearly at his forties or fresh into that decade. He’s got the loose physique of a man who’s recently become accustomed to the confines of a desk, or who’s rediscovered the comforts of his couch.

John must have caught him in the middle of some private joke. When the Captain looks up from the papers on his desk, his eyes are laughing, mouth pulled in a smirk.

“Officer Keaton,” the Captain pulls a hand through his light brown hair and rises from his chair. The smirk settles into something more serious when he extends his hand. “Welcome to the 77th Precinct. You can call me 'Gabriel'.”

“Gabriel.” John shakes his hand briskly, unsure if he appreciates a man of authority so quick to endear himself to a body of the Feds.

“No.”

It takes a second for Gabriel’s monosyllable to translate into meaning.

“No?” John asks anyway.

“I’m denying your request to access that federal database,” Gabriel says, smiling.

John’s hands twitch to grab his collar, he almost shoves the Captain back against the desk. It’s not personal, only an instinct from years of shunting inhuman things that didn’t die when John told them to.

It takes another second for him to remember he’s dealing with a lawman where different rules apply and consequences are more trouble than they're worth.

“I should tell you it’s only courtesy that I’m lodging the request, my federal privileges entitle—“

Gabriel laughs. The man actually laughs. “You’re not a federal officer, John.”

The gun on John’s hip is suddenly very cold and very heavy on his belt. He touches the hilt through the inner lining of his jacket pocket.

“… And who the hell are you?”

The man actually looks like he’s considering the response to that question and John wonders how many police officers would charge in if he pulled the gun out right now. As it happens, the Captain just shrugs with a disarming smile.

“I’m the guy who can drop you on the sinking Titanic if I snapped my fingers, so, pay attention: you don’t need that database. Castiel won’t be on it.”

It occurs to John that he hadn’t mentioned anything about Castiel since setting foot in the station.

“Have you run that boy through this station before?” He asks, because it’s possible the guy was just power drunk and well informed.

“John Winchester,” Gabriel says and his true name makes John tense in alert, “Your orphan ward is a bona fide ‘bred on cloud by the will of God in chorus – hallelujah’ angel. Nobody in this time is looking for him.”

John sneers. “In this time?”

‘Cause, what the hell did _that_ mean?

“If you know all this, I take you to mean you’re in on his game? What does that make you? The _angel_ Gabriel?”

John snickers, even though the man standing in front of him is probably some kind of demon or monster masquerading as a lawman and is going to make John take out his weapon very soon.

No point not taking a moment to laugh before he has to fire.

“I should have said ‘Bob’.”

Gabriel sighs stiffly, like John is testing his patience and _Gabriel’s_ not the one speaking trash. “Look, big daddy: coming back to this time was his sentence. He could have gone to Paris, Berlin, but he wanted you. He wanted the Winchesters.”

There's something dark in Gabriel’s voice that takes John back to that previous night when he held a silver blade in his hand and threw holy water on Castiel’s face. Gabriel is giving him a warning.

“He was _sent_ for you. Take the hint.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers. It feels like someone’s tugged the carpet from under John’s feet and when he steadies himself, he’s standing beside the Impala in the frigid car park of their motel.

Castiel whirls where he’s suddenly standing at John’s feet. He stares at John in open shock. “That was an angel! Did you see—“

“Gabriel.”

John watches carefully for what that name means to Castiel. The kid’s face immediately goes slack, stunned and he grows very still.

“Where is he? John, did he speak to you?”

“Said he was Captain of the 77th Precinct. He one of your angel friends, Castiel?"

Castiel doesn’t even feign playing dumb and leaps for the Impala’s passenger door. “We have to go back. Take us back, John, right now.”

John pushes him away from the door handle and glances back at their motel room, but he can’t see any faces watching at the window. “Castiel, it's time you listened to me. You tell me just what—“

The door of their room had been open.

Castiel startles when John rushes past him and charges into the motel room.

“Sam? Dean!”

John lunges over the clothes and books strewn everywhere to check the bathroom, but he already knows.

The room is empty.

The sheets from Sam’s bed have been dragged halfway to the door. The book he'd been reading is spilled open on the floor to a picture of a boy peering around thin trees in a dark, misty forest. John smells the discharge of gunpowder and there are three shots in the wall by the door. A fourth shot had taken out the door handle, but all the marks tell John it had been blown open from the outside.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn….

He finds blood spatter near the television and it trails back to the door where the wound seems to have been stemmed at the doormat.

“Demons.” Castiel hovers in the doorway, a hand on the cheap metal frame.

“What?” John barks and checks under the desk. The duffel bag is still there. He yanks it out and gratefully discovers nothing but a few rounds of ammunition missing. Good boy, Dean.

Castiel slowly takes a step into the motel room, “By their scent, I think it was the same demons who took me. Those demons when you found me.”

“You didn’t kill them,” John says, bluntly. He swiftly loads three rounds into the sawn-off shotgun he pulls from the bag.

Castiel almost looks crestfallen. “I suppose I didn’t.”

“All right.”

Castiel yelps when John seizes him by the front of his shirt and heaves him around. Castiel stumbles against the foot of the bed with a choked noise of surprise and John knows he heard the shotgun being cocked.

John glares down the length of the barrel when those blue eyes flicker up to him, wide in alarm. “Who sent you, Castiel?”

Castiel seems too stunned by the barrel in his face. He blinks from the barrel to John’s face in confusion and no small amount of fear.

“I don’t believing everything the _angel_ Gabriel said, but I can buy that you were sent for me and they took Sam and Dean when they found us gone. So, who sent you? Where did they take them?”

The kid pulls a decent impression of shock. “How would I know that?”

“I’m going to count to three. Kid’s body or no, I’ll shoot unless you sing.”

Castiel’s neck twitches like he wants to shake his head, his mouth is working but all John hears is a croaking lack of cooperation. Castiel finally finds his voice and his eyes are shining with tears, right on cue.

“John, I didn’t betray you! I liaise with no demons—“

“I’ve read the name ‘Castiel’ in enough incantations. Carrying that name doesn’t make you an angel, kid. They probably killed or, hell, even possessed your family, right? But they’re not your family anymore. It’s those demons who hurt you. Don’t let them do the same to my boys.”

“I want to help you,” Castiel’s voice cracks on the tearful admission of ‘help’.

John nods affirmatively, Castiel _will_ help him. “Tell me where they are.”

“I don’t know.”

_“Castiel….”_

“I don’t know!” He shouts, hoarse on the edge of a sob.

It’s not going to work on John this time. He gives the kid a minute because with humans that young, their brains tended to completely halt under stress and John had every intention of getting what he needed.

“Think, Castiel.”

Castiel’s face contorts in frustration and he shakes his head, helplessly. “The barn?”

John had considered that, but it would have been too easy. “Where else?”

Castiel’s face falls. His fingers rub the ridge of his brow and it’s such an adult gesture, John feels something like pity for the kid. So young, so damn confused. He looks devastated and he’s probably thinking about what his demon kin will perform when they get their hands on him again.

“If they want you, they will make it simple for you to find them,” Castiel says and his face crumples. He doesn’t raise his head. “But their plans aren’t mine. I have nothing to do with them. John, you _have_ to believe me.”

He sounds so miserable. John almost lowers the shotgun.

“I’m sorry, kid,” John tells him and it doesn’t feel like a lie, “I can’t take the chance.”

-*-

When Dean comes to, he smells damp, rotting wood and Earth.

He’s not in the motel.

Dean snaps awake, inhaling sharply through his nose and he almost bangs his head on the wooden beam behind him. Wood scrapes roughly through the back of his shirt. His breath steams on the cold air of what looks like an old barn.

He’s pretty sure there are splinters in his back.

His arms have been tied above his head and he can feel, but not quite see the thick rope when he tugs. He thinks his hands would actually fall off if he tugged any harder. They’re numb, aching and there’s no slack in the knots.

He groans, unable to look up at his hands any longer.

It’s hard to take stock when your head is pounding.

They’ve let him kneel in the dirt. He can barely feel the ground through his jeans, but he’s shivering. He can't tell if the ground is wet or everything is just that cold.

His left eyelid sort of sticks when he slowly blinks and, yeah, that is sort of where the throbbing in his head is coming from.

And then Dean remembers.

The figure at the window of their motel window.

The stomp of footsteps along the thin walls and the shadows under the door.

Dean remembers the cold that gripped his lungs as he waited for the coded knock to swallow that bad feeling. He hadn’t picked up the shotgun, just motioned for Sam to turn down the volume on the television, turn it right down.

They didn’t wait long.

He should have grabbed the shotgun in the first place.

The knock at the door never came.

He didn’t recognise the grown-ups who blew the door open.

Sam went fighting and screaming and just the memory of that sound makes Dean feel sick. Sam grabbed everything he could reach when they dragged him out the door in broad daylight, but the grown-ups had shut his baby brother up pretty fast.

Dean had fired three, maybe four shots. He’s not sure he hit any of the five grown-ups that busted into their motel room. He’s pretty sure they’d knocked him out with his own gun.

Fucking sons of bitches….

“Sam?”

Dean squints in the dark, but he can’t see Sam in the dark of the barn.

It’s a half-moon tonight, dim shafts of light breaking the dark in narrow columns. A cold whistle of autumn air and the faraway buzz of highway traffic leak through the glass windows.

“Sam!” He whispers, more urgently, louder. His heart is thudding so hard it feels like there’s a boot in his chest trying to kick its way out.

Rusted shearing tools hang high from the wall on his left. Loose, thin piles of what might have once been wood planks and hay line both barn walls. Two rows of light shades swing from the roof, but Dean can’t see through the dark if any of them have bulbs. If he could get free, he wouldn’t risk bringing attention by flipping them on anyway.

It’s cold and the quiet is suffocating.

Dean viciously bites the inside of his cheek to keep his lip from trembling.

_“Sam?”_

A low and familiar groan finally answers from somewhere behind him.

Dean almost dislocates his shoulder when he startles, twisting round to find his little brother with his eyes. He doesn’t quite manage it at first, but he catches what looks like a small, crooked arm out of the corner of his eye.

“Sam? Sammy!”

Old wood still splinters. Dean doesn’t think he’ll have any skin left on his knuckles when he mangles his body around as far as his tied wrists will let him.

Sam’s tied to another beam under a set of stairs leading to the catwalk Dean’s beam supports; too far for Dean to reach him.

Sam’s head is nodding like it does when he’s been up too late in front of the television. Dean knows this isn’t like those times. The rest of Sam isn’t moving, arms behind his back at the beam. It’s too dark but Dean guesses the thick, dark shadow around Sam’s chest is layers of rope.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is small and faint.

“I’m here buddy, it’s going to be all right.” Dean hates the way his voice cracks at the promise.

Because this is absolutely the time to lie through his teeth to his baby brother who does _not_ need to know Dean is scared out of his mind. But there’s one thing he knows, one thing that steadies the shake in his muscles for a breath and lets him shut his eyes to repeat it like a desperate, hysterical prayer.

“Dad’s coming, Sammy,” He believes with every petrified beat of his heart. “He’s on his way.”

Sam doesn’t reply. His head hangs to his chest.

The barn doors in front of Dean swing wide open. He shuts his eyes when a blast of freezing air from outside hits him in the face and he presses himself as far back into the dark as he can go.

There’s a silhouette of at least three people standing in the open doorway. None of them are his Dad. Dean knows he’s on his way. He just wishes he knew how to be brave until then.

“Look at that,” The silhouette of the man on the left glances at his friends, he sounds happy, but it makes Dean nervous, “He’s awake.”

He should have pretended to be asleep. Or dead.

The man who spoke jerks his head in a way that probably means something to the others.

“Check his brother.”

Dean forgets that last thought as the other two, a guy and a girl jog past him. The guy glances him over, face blank. They look like teenagers.

“Don’t touch him!” Dean shouts, fists curling above his head.

“He’s still out,” The girl calls, matter of fact and Dean wishes he could take his eyes off the guy in front to see what they were doing.

“Then wake him up.”

Dean’s head cranes back to see what they could be doing to his little brother, but a hand tugs his chin back around.

This guy seems to be calling the shots. He’s probably a teenager, too, but Dean can’t really tell. He’s not very much taller than the other two, but he’s big enough that Dean keeps still when he crouches down to look him in the eye.

“How ya doing, kid?”

Dean stares back at the almost smile on the guy’s face. “Please don’t hurt my brother.”

The guy’s mouth shrugs and he glances at the broken light shades above their heads. “Well, I don’t want to, but that’ll depend on you.”

Dean feels like someone’s just crushed his heart but he feels his mouth twisting into a scowl though he’d rather be crying.

“Who are you?” Dean spits, barely getting the words out.

The guy’s face lights up as though Dean’s done something right. That’s not right, Dean doesn’t want to help this guy. “That’s a great question, I was going to ask you the same thing: what’s your name?”

Dean blinks, mind whirring and stubbornly replies, “Jason.”

The guy nods in encouragement. “What’s your last name, Jason?”

“… Todd.”

The guy whistles like he’s impressed and looks Dean up and down. “Well, well. Jason Todd. You’re smaller than I expected for Batman’s second sidekick.”

Just… damn.

For some reason, Dean hadn’t expected this douche to read comic books, too. That sort of trait normally would have put a grown-up – almost grown-up – on Dean’s cool list.

“You know… Jason died,” The guy continues, “Yeah, he was bludgeoned to death by a psycho.”

Dean bites his tongue when the guy grounds himself with a knee in the dirt, folds his hands on the other bent knee like he’s settling in for a serious conversation. There’s a weight to his movements, a sort of resignation Dean recognises from times his Dad had to sit him down to explain when Dean had done wrong. And that look in his Dad’s face before he even opened his mouth: the disappointment. The way he’d sigh, tight and short, would make Dean jump to swear he didn’t do it.

This guy’s wearing that same expression and Dean thinks the guy’s prepared to give him more than just a stern talking to.

_Please, please hurry up, Dad._

“Do you know what ‘bludgeoned’ means, kid?”

Dean’s throat is too thick to answer.

There’s something small, square and flat folding between the guy’s fingers. It looks like a card.

“My friends over there are pretty angry I pulled them out of the bar where we were watching the football. Do you like football, kid? I don’t pay much attention, but they love it, so… the reason I’m telling you this is I want you to understand the two people standing over your brother are looking to hurt something. Bad.” The guy’s lips press in a thin line and Dean doesn’t think he’s used to disappointment like Dean’s Dad. “So, what’s your real name?”

“He’s coming round,” The guy’s friend says, somewhere behind Dean and his heart leaps in his chest. The thought of Sam being awake through this makes it suddenly more real.

The man holds up the card between two fingers. It has rounded corners. It looks sort of familiar....

“Your brother’s wallet was empty except for this and a few candy wrappers. What does a kid his age need a wallet for, right?” The guy grins and looks at the card. Light glances off its plastic surface from the car headlights outside. He holds it out to Dean as though he could actually take it. “But apparently ‘Samuel Winchester’ likes books enough to get his own membership at the local library. Cute.”

Dean jerks when the man taps the card on the bridge of his nose.

“Would that make you Dean?”

There’s a muffled, uncomfortable noise behind him; Sammy waking up.

The man notices too, looking past Dean’s shoulder. He smiles. “I’ll just ask your brother then.” The man starts to push himself to his feet.

“No, wait!”

The guy raises his eyebrows expectantly. Dean has to swallow a few times, glancing behind the man holding them hostage and willing his Dad to appear in the barn’s doorway. He waits three breaths. Forces out an exhale that hurt his lungs.

“Dean. I’m Dean Winchester.”

The man’s smile fades, but he settles back down into the dirt. “Where’s your Dad, Dean?”

Motel. Police station. Road.

Dean’s mind whirrs through images of these things and keeps coming back to the hopeful vision of his Dad cocking his shotgun, firing these bastards back to hell.

“He’s coming for us. And he’s gonna kill you when he gets here.”

The man shrugs at the threat. “You think your Dad’s coming, kid? My Dad’s already here.”

Dean frowns, attention flickering to the empty walls around them. “Your Dad?”

Dean bangs his head back on the column when the wood on the catwalk creaks above him.

A much older man stands there in a long coat that ends around his ankles. His eyes glow yellow in the dark and he’s staring down at Dean with terrifying intensity.

Demon.

And like a tinny voice on the radio in another room, Castiel’s words drift back to him.

_“When you were four years old, your mother was killed in Sam’s nursery by a yellow-eyed demon.”_

Dean gapes. It can’t be -- it can't be the same demon.

Crap. Holy crap….

“Hey, kiddo.” The yellow eyes crinkle in a smile, stiff black collar of his coat standing at his ears.

When Dean's Dad went down on one knee and pushed a sawn-off shotgun into his hands four years ago, Dean could shoot the milk bottles off the fence from 200 metres.

Protect your brother. Protect yourself. Protect yourselves from anything that comes through that door and don't wait to see what it is. Safety off. Count the rounds when you load. Count when you fire.

Dean knew he was ready for anything.

There's been raccoons, stray dogs and adults who stared too long, too curious. Dean knew he could protect Sammy from those things. He saw his Dad's stores of rock salt, smelly herbs and saw the pictures of monsters in his journal when his Dad wasn't looking.

He saw monsters and he shot a rabid dog. Once.

He could handle those things, but now there's a tall man in a long coat who might have killed his mother, whose eyes burn yellow in the dark.

Dean’s scared out of his mind.

There's a gurgling noise of surprise somewhere from Sam, out of sight. Dean’s chest tightens, eyes tearing when Sam coughs wetly and whines.

"Make sure he drinks it all," the yellow-eyed man says.

Helpless fury burns in his chest and he feels faint.

In an instant, Dean’s awareness of the world drags to a crawl before it seems to stop completely, dust and wood particles suspended in the moonlight in front of his eyes and when he can move again he’s pulling himself up from the dirt.

He doesn’t remember falling. The car headlights are gone.

He doesn’t remember getting his arms free, but they’re limp and tingling at his sides in the dirt.

He doesn’t know why his vision has whited out. There’s an after burn when he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Then he hears the shotgun fire and drops his hands.

Is it too hopeful to think that he knows that shotgun?

Water splashes in his eyes and then someone’s shaking him.

“Dean!” He hears their whoosh of relief like a shout through water and then there are small hands on his face, tipping his face, “Dean, you’re still you.”

Dean frowns, he’s started to learn that voice, but… really?

Castiel’s profile burns like an after image in a void, but there’s something larger flaring from his back. The shadow of wings, disproportionately huge and sweeping, flutters with every vain pull of his small arms.

What the….?

“Cast--?”

Dean blinks a few times, but they’re still there, the negative flare of them fading with the pulse of pain behind his eyes. He squints at this tiny person hunched beside him under the walkway, but the edges of everything are still wobbling, half-whited out.

“I can see them,” Dean says and doesn’t consider if Castiel has a clue what he means.

He catches one of the hands in his shirt and Castiel’s small fingers close over his.

“… I believe you,” Dean breathes out.

Shotgun fire continues over their heads and Dean’s never been more grateful to be small.

“Are you hurt?” Castiel asks, voice hushed. His hands have moved to Dean’s shoulders.

Dean groans a question because he’s not sure where to start, but Castiel seems to understand.

“Trust me, okay? I’m going to protect you.”

One of Castiel’s hands leaves his shoulders, then Dean’s shirt rips over his heart and he freaks out when he feels cold metal against his skin. Castiel’s other hand is still there on his shoulder and Dean doesn’t know how, but the kid manages to hold him down.

“Trust me,” Castiel says, too sure, too firm for someone barely out of diapers.

“You gonna cut out my heart?”

“No. This sigil will protect you from evil.”

The metal point of the knife is still over Dean’s heart.

The wall explodes to their right and somewhere behind Castiel there’s a mighty crash of glass and metal like a whole wall of tools and window panes just came down. A body thumps to the ground, heavy and large and Dean wishes his vision would stop swimming.

Fuck, Sammy. Where the hell was Sammy?

Dean feels himself nod.

He still shouts in surprise when Castiel carves into his chest. Knowing it was coming doesn’t help to brace against the sharp, bright lines being cut into his skin, but the kid is quick and he’s done almost as soon as Dean’s stopped reeling against the shock of it.

The knife disappears and Castiel presses the shirt back firmly over his handiwork. It takes Dean a minute to react to the insistent tugs on his arm.

“Come on, get up. Dean!” Castiel says, but they won’t get anywhere if Dean doesn’t help him out. “We have to save Sam. We have to save—“

They jump as another gunshot splits the dark, but Dean chokes on his relief when John’s voice shouts above the animalistic snarls of pain and fury.

“There’s more where that came from, boys; keep it coming!”

Black smoke roars across the barn over their heads.

“Dad,” Dean’s voice cracks and he climbs to his feet, toward his father’s voice, but Castiel yanks him back urgently.

“No! No, Dean: we have to save Sam!”

Okay. Yes. Dean feels himself nodding, or that could just be the sway in his step. He’s finally on his feet, vision half-blind and blurry, but Castiel seems to know where he’s going. Dean obediently stumbles after him.

At a quick glance, he can’t see Sam by any of the pillars, but there’s a lot of dark despite the moonlight.

“What’s the plan?”

Castiel lets go of his hand and crouches behind a small tower of crates. Dean almost falls to his knees trying to follow him and then Castiel is pushing a sawn-off shotgun into his hands.

It’s his. Castiel actually brought Dean’s shotgun.

“Rock salt,” Castiel says and motions at his shoulder, “I can’t hold it.”

Dean’s grip is a bit limp, the nerves in his left arm despondent with aftershocks from whatever Castiel carved over his heart. His head’s still throbbing, making his stomach coil with nausea, but Castiel got them this far.

He grits his teeth, feeling the cold sweat on his brow and he’s almost certain he’s going to be sick.

“Get behind me,” He says.

The moment he’s stepped from behind the crates, someone rushes through the shaft of moonlight. They’re smaller than his father, bigger than Sammy, so he fires. The shriek is female and she whirls when she goes down. Her body contorts and before Dean realises what’s happening there’s a black cloud roaring in his ears, he can feel Castiel pressed against his back and for a second Dean thinks he can still hear the woman screaming. The wound over his heart flares like the knife is there again and with a final howl, the smoky cloud is gone.

Dean staggers, stunned, but still on his feet.

“Are you okay? Dean, are you okay?” Castiel is trying to see his face, his blue eyes bright in the moonlight.

“Sam!” Dean hears his father shout. “Dean!”

“Dad, I’m with Cas, get Sam!” Dean croaks and he reaches for Castiel’s hand. Castiel instead pushes him forward and that’s all the reassurance he needs.

Someone else steps into the moonlight over the woman’s body and it’s harder to cock the shotgun this time.

It’s the man with Sam’s library card and his expression is ugly.

“I’ll feed you to the fucking dogs,” The man snarls, trembling with rage and Dean’s heart skips a beat at the naked murder in his eyes.

“Run,” Dean hisses under his breath.

A beat later than Dean wants, eventually Castiel shifts beside him. The man’s eye twitches and by some invisible force, Castiel crashes against the crates with a wrenching cry. The shotgun shudders in Dean’s hands and the man gives a shout of pain, hunching over his damaged knee.

Castiel falls to the ground with a soft groan and Dean’s cocking the gun again. The man rears back with a growl when it hits him in the shoulder, but Dean startles when a volley of three successive shots finds the man twice in the heart and once in the head.

The man’s expression is shocked. Blood seeps in his eyes, down his chin and the black smoke erupts from his mouth before his body falls to the ground like a severed puppet.

Dean stares from the body to his father who’s suddenly standing beside him, shotgun tight against his shoulder.

John’s face is grim, but he pulls Dean tight against his side. Dean forces back a grateful sob when his nose is filled with the familiar smells of leather and gun oil that mean home; safe. He barely feels the throb of the cuts in his chest because it’s going to be okay now.

It lasts less than a second, because they still have to find Sam, and Castiel….

But Castiel’s already dragged himself to John’s other side. His expression is dazed, but he’s lucid enough to have wrapped his fingers around John’s pant. John’s other hand’s found his head, shotgun braced behind Castiel’s back and Dean’s reaching for the kid even as John’s pushing him into Dean’s arms.

“I’m going to find your brother, you stay out of sight,” John warns, hands tight on their shoulders.

“I’m coming,” Dean says just as Castiel pipes, “I want to help.”

And then another voice interrupts them and John’s shotgun is up in a moment.

“You can all stay right where you are; I’ve saved you the trouble.”

John fires and Castiel whimpers when Dean’s hands clamp around his shoulders.

It’s the yellow-eyed man hovering just beyond the moonlight where his collar cuts the shaft of light. There’s a hole from John’s gunshot smoking ineffectually over his heart and a thin trail of blood is leaking into his plaid button-down shirt.

At his feet, Sam is standing over the bodies of the fallen demons. Dean’s baby brother looks loose, almost sleepy, and he’s pretty sure they’re all staring at the same thing.

At the blood dripping from Sam’s mouth and chin.

“Dad?”

He says it without stutter or pain; Dean doesn’t think that’s his blood.

Sam blinks at them, calm and disconnected, and Dean finally understands what it means to feel your blood go cold.

“You,” John says, voice trembling with a new anger Dean’s never heard.

The demon smiles broadly and sweeps his hands out as if to say, ‘ta da’! “I have to say… I didn’t expect to see you or your fine boys so soon, John. It’s a delight to check up on young Samuel here,” The demon proudly strokes a hand over Sam’s hair, but Sam doesn’t react, “He’s coming along nicely.”

Dean notices that his father doesn’t lower the shotgun. Sam is staring at them with a slack numbness that’s bringing the sick, rolling feeling back to Dean’s stomach.

“Sammy,” His father’s voice cracks, “Come here.”

The yellow-eyed man curls his hand at the base of Sam’s nape.

“You’ll have to forgive your boy if he’s not so obedient tonight. You could say he’s… under the influence.”

Castiel makes a choked noise.

“Tell me what you did,” John says.

“I’ve given him a taste of things to come,” the demon says simply, clearly pleased with the cryptic map he’s weaving.

“He’s fed Sam demon blood,” Castiel blurts, surprising them all and they turn to stare at him.

The demon’s smugness melts into something dark and those bright, pale eyes slowly focus on the smallest of them all.

“… What?” John’s voice is hollow with shock.

Dean forgets about Castiel’s bad shoulder and holds the kid tighter against his side, silently begging him to be quiet, but it’s already too late.

Castiel has the demon’s complete, undivided attention.

“And who is this?”

“He’s just—“ Dean starts, but Castiel speaks over him.

“I’m Castiel, an angel of the Lo—“

Dean clamps a hand over his mouth, desperately hisses in his ear, “Shut up.”

The demon is staring in careful wonder. “An angel? Well, I’m clarified: I was sure young Mary had only pumped out two before I put her on the rotisserie.”

A section of the roof explodes above the demon and John cocks his shotgun again. Debris of wood and dust rain on the demon’s head.

Dean gasps when the debris stops in mid-air as though suspended in water before a single splinter has touched the demon or his brother. Castiel bristles and Dean feels the air press in closer around them.

“You’re going to hand me my son. And then we’re going to walk out of here, all of us, alive,” John says, voice tight and even.

The demon is chuckling like he didn’t even hear John’s statement. He examines the floating debris and looks down at Sam fondly. “Ah, well done, Sam.”

“Don’t let him leave with Sam,” Castiel begs, fingers winding tighter in John’s pant leg and as horrifyingly curious as Dean is for what Castiel knows, he wants the kid to shut up for his own good.

“Sam,” The demon says with calm and confidence, “Please give me your father’s gun.”

Sam licks his lips, pink tongue darting out over his bloody mouth and the yellow-eyed demon shouts triumphantly when the shotgun flies into his hands.

Dean stares, shocked. “What the--?”

“Sam, no!” Castiel shouts, “I know you can hear us! Listen to your father, please! You can resist this!”

John looks too shell-shocked to speak and it breaks Dean’s heart.

Those careful, yellow eyes are on Castiel again, bright with curiousity, but the kid doesn’t seem to care. “I’ll make you an offer, John,” The demon says, drawing the man’s attention back to him.

John glares, waiting for him to speak, like he knows this man is too powerful for any method at his disposal.

“I’ll trade your son for that one.” The demon nods meaningfully at Castiel and the barn falls completely silent.

John fists his hands at his sides, but Dean sees it and when he thinks his father is about to speak, Castiel surprises them all for the second time.

“Done.”

“What?” John barks, but Castiel’s gotten better at holding himself together against that voice and he just looks between John and Dean, expression guarded.

“Trust me,” he mouths to Dean.

Dean has an awful feeling and it’s only going to get worse, either way this goes, because this isn’t right. John is trembling like he’s fighting the impulse to do something; to fly at this motherfucker that destroyed their family and get himself pulled to pieces, or let Castiel trade himself away to keep the rest of them together. If the demon honours his offer.

They lose both ways, but Castiel’s already narrowed his eyes at the demon expectantly.

The demon is smiling widely and it’s fucking terrifying. “I’m going to like you,” He sets his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “Go on, Sam. I’m a man of my word.”

Sam looks at the hand on his pajama-clad shoulder, gaze unfocused.

“Sam,” Castiel says, softly and Sam looks down into his face, “We’re going to swap. It’s okay.”

Dean can’t let him do this. Dean wants his brother back. Dean can’t let… he can’t want….

Castiel looks up at him abruptly, searching Dean’s face like the conflict is plain on his face. His small hand reaches for the top of Dean’s left arm and when it settles on the muscle there, a funny not-smile finds his face. It looks so wrong, so weary on a kid so young.

But Dean believes him now; he’s not just a kid.

This guy thinks he’s going to save their family from an apocalypse that hasn’t happened yet.

Maybe he is their guardian angel. It doesn’t make Dean feel any better for letting him do this. He’s pretty sure people go to hell for this sort of selfishness.

“It’s okay,” Castiel assures him and it hits like a fresh knife in his chest.

Castiel looks up, craning his head back to meet John’s expression, drawn tight and grim. For some reason Dean will never understand, Castiel’s expression lights up with a real smile then.

He wraps his hand around those of John’s fingers that he can reach.

Sam meets him halfway across the divide, an unsteady sway in his step. Castiel’s hand briefly clasps his arm when they cross.

John sinks to one knee, closing his arms around Sam and Dean when he reaches them. Dean can smell the blood on his brother. He can feel the tremors in his father’s body and he’s worried when his brother makes no effort to hug their father back.

That’s not like Sam at all.

John glances down at Sam, pushing the hair back from his face and wiping the blood away with his sleeve. His Dad’s gaze flickers back to the yellow-eyed demon with his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and that proud smirk has returned to his face.

Castiel is staring up at him, a child against a demon.

“I never thought I’d see one of my brothers so removed,” The demon says.

What the hell does that mean?

Dean looks at his father in alarm, but John is still watching like a stunned man witnessing a disaster in slow motion. There are so many emotions flickering through his expression and Dean isn’t sure he recognises them all.

“Then embrace me, brother,” Castiel’s voice is soft and resigned.

It’s with an indulgent chuckle that the demon slowly lowers to his knees, arms wide open. His yellow eyes glitter merrily when Castiel steps firmly into the fold of his arms.

“Do you seek forgiveness for your crimes, brother?” Castiel asks against the demon’s shoulder.

The demon pats his back, sympathetically amused. “Who _are_ you, little bird?”

Dean’s lips are tingling and his chest feels too hot, but before he can dry heave, John’s hand is turning Dean’s face into his shoulder.

He almost misses the flash of silver that slips from Castiel’s sleeve.

John stiffens in surprise at the scream that rents the air and when Dean jerks back to look, the demon is slack-jawed with disbelief, light and electricity spilling from his eyes, nose and mouth.

At first he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing until Castiel pulls back from the embrace and Dean sees the large, silver knife Castiel’s stuck in the demon’s back.

The same knife he used to carve symbols into Dean’s chest. It was a very… bright silver.

The air feels electrified, charged and dense with power and if the thrum beneath their feet is any hint, it’s building.

Castiel leans in, twisting the knife. “I’m the one who kills you, Azazel.”

The demon’s body jerks with a final shock of light and it hits them like a physical wall; Dean’s eyes bulge at the strength of his father’s arms around them, but in the end, John keeps them standing.

The dust settles, the light fades and Dean shoves back from his father to steal greedy gulps of air.

When Castiel looks up from Azazel’s body, he falters under John and Dean’s heavy stare. But before Dean really knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching for Castiel and a second later the kid has slammed into him, full force. Dean's numb, his arms falling around the kid who's just saved them and there's a furious sting behind his eyes.

John crushes the three of them against his chest. They’re all shaking.

“Castiel,” John says, undisguised awe and wary, “What was that?”

He loosens his hold on them enough for Castiel to look him in the eye. The kid dashes back to the body and pulls his knife out without ceremony, wiping it on the demon’s coat. Running back into the circle of John’s arms, he holds it higher for them to see.

“This is an archangel’s sword. It was in my pocket when we returned from the police station, but…”

“Gabriel,” John breathes and Dean looks between them waiting for the explanation, but Castiel is nodding, so Dean doesn’t think he’s going to get it.

“For Azazel, it was more than I needed. Gabriel must be planning ahead,” Castiel’s voice trails off softly, gaze growing distant and he slowly shakes his head at the knife that looks large enough to be a small sword in his hands.

John can’t seem to decide where he should look: the sword, the demon who killed his wife, or the kid who avenged her. His thumb is running stripes over Dean’s shoulder and Dean can see he wants to ask.

“… Dad?”

John shakes his head, eyes finding the demon’s body again. “Are you sure he’s --?

“This is sword is intended for the highest order of angels; Azazel was a dark shade of the angel he once was. He is very, very dead.”

Dean cracks a smile, a choked laugh escaping him in relief. He bumps his Dad’s side when he barely reacts; Castiel was actually funny!

And bad-ass. Dude, this kid was _bad ass_. They had to keep him.

John’s still staring at the corpse, Dean thinks he’s in shock. But on his Dad’s other side Sammy’s still silent, lolling against his arm and that was really not normal.

Leaning forward for a better look, Dean realises Sam’s pupils are as wide as saucers. His face is pale and vacant. His mouth is still smeared red; he looked like a zombie.

“Sammy?”

Sam only responds by rolling his head against John’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong with him?” John asks, frowing deeply when he turns Sam in his arms and he almost flops like a limp doll. “What did they do?”

“Demon blood?” Dean offers, remembering what Castiel had said. “Is it like mind control?”

Castiel stops, darting looks between them and John must recognise that expression because he narrows a familiar warning at the kid.

“Castiel….”

Dean wonders what he’s not telling them, but then Castiel pushes a flask from his jacket into John’s hand. It’s Dean’s silver flask from that morning on the bridge.

He can’t believe that was the same day.

“Give this to him, he has to drink all of it. The holy water should force it up immediately, we can’t let it linger in his system.”

John’s already coaxing Sam to drink it, rubbing a hand over his back. He’s so despondent, Dean allows himself to hold his brother’s hand. It’s freaking him out.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” He says, voice cracking.

His Dad gives him a tired look that cuts him to the bone and his eyes sting dangerously.

“I’m sorry, Dad; I let you down.”

His Dad’s face twists for a moment, like he’s in pain. Dean’s ready for the reprimand, but he’s not ready for Castiel, who’s never been in this moment with them before and is looking at Dean like he’s an idiot.

“You’re only a child, Dean.”

And then Sam’s throwing up on Castiel’s shoes and they forget everything else except consoling Sam by rubbing his back, ruffling his hair and encouraging him to take small sips from the flask until every last drop his gone and Sam’s sobs have settled to a sniffle against his father’s neck.

Forty minutes later, they’re sitting on the trunk of the Impala in the car park of a diner, with the barn and its bodies a distant blaze on the highway behind them. It’s been more than twelve hours since any of them ate, but sandwiched between Dean and Castiel has given both boys the opportunity to notice that Sam has barely touched his fries.

Sam’s staring off at nothing, food forgotten in his hands and it’s like the nothing is flowing right back into him, filling him up where the curious, temperamental spirit of a six-year-old brat ought to be.

Dean can see that his Dad is worried, holding Sam on his lap. His mouth is almost pressed to Sam’s hair, hands stroking Sam’s elbows and his eyes are shut tight. Dean may have thought his Dad was praying, except that they didn’t pray.

What really worries Dean is that his Dad gave him his burger to finish.

Dean is quietly freaking out in his own way, he doesn’t want to make it worse for his Dad.

“Hey,” He nudges Sam.

Castiel looks up from his burger when Sam sways into his shoulder with the movement. John’s hands tighten on Sam’s arms.

”Look alive, Smurfette, you’re scaring Dad.”

He doesn’t know if Sam even heard him. He exchanges a look with Castiel who looks so fucking calm, though he knows Dean’s freaking out and he’s not getting mad at him for that. It makes Dean feel a bit better.

Dean wraps his arm over Sam’s shoulders, squeezing him gently. “Come on, buddy.”

“John.”

Castiel’s twisted around in his seat and now it’s John exchanging a long look with the kid, like they’re exchanging thoughts and Dean wonders if Castiel will do that with everyone.

“You’re really an angel, huh, kid?” John asks. “Or you were an angel?”

Castiel’s nodding at his burger – extra beef – like it’s the first time it’s been difficult for him to admit. Funny, since he spent the last day trying to shove the truth down their throats.

“I rebelled against angels like Azazel to help my friends. I was cut off from the Host.”

When Castiel passes Dean his burger, Dean knows by his drawn expression that he’s done with it. It’s a good thing Dean’s hungry.

“I don’t have much power left, but I think I can help Sam,” Castiel says, eventually.

Dean stops chewing and forgets to swallow. His Dad doesn’t look as excited as he thought he would, instead he looks suspicious; but Dean trusts Castiel.

“How?” John asks, weirdly stern.

“This is a trauma he wasn’t supposed to witness. If I remove his memory of this day, it might… bring him back to the way he was.”

Dean shrugs, looking between Castiel and his Dad. “So, let’s do it.”

“Castiel,” John’s voice has become quiet, “How much of your power would it take?”

Castiel fidgets his bandaged hands. “If I’m successful… all – all of it.”

John watches Castiel’s mitt-like hands tap together. “Would it kill you?”

Dean finally swallows the cheekfulls of beef he’s been squirreling; and almost chokes.

“No, I’ve been in this limbo since I rebelled. If I do this, I would be completely human.”

A heavy silence falls over the car park. It’s too early in the morning for there to be many patrons and the forest is still asleep, the sky dark without a hint of dawn.

Dean doesn’t understand why his Dad is watching Castiel expectantly. Why doesn’t he say anything?

Castiel’s very preoccupied with his hands.

Finally, Dean speaks up.

“What’s wrong with being human? We’re human, you could come with us,” Dean says. Only once it’s out does he realise what he’s promised and he quickly glances at his Dad for approval. “Right, Dad?”

John’s smiling at Castiel’s bright expression of hope and Dean’s pretty sure he’s not going to get a smack upside the head. “We could fit a few more in this car. It’s up to you, Castiel.”

Castiel’s smile is blinding, but he doesn’t thank them; he doesn’t throw himself into their arms for tearful hugs like he did that first night. Instead, he shuffles closer to the one who’s been quiet the whole night and settles a small hand on his forehead.

Together, he and Sam close their eyes.

-*-

In the end, Sam doesn’t remember that night with Azazel, the demon blood and the barn.

When he’s twelve, his family sits him down at a lakeside picnic table and break his condition to him like it’s a history of cancer in the family.

“Son, you’re predisposed to an addiction to demon blood. Do not drink it, okay?”

Sam just twists his face and thinks they’re all disgusting, but Castiel and his Dad are deadly serious.

Thankfully, Dean looks as grossed out and uncomfortable as he feels. They sip on their root beer until the weirdos drop the subject.

When Castiel joins their family, there are some obvious benefits Sam could have predicted, like having a tie breaker in the argument over the television show to watch through dinner.

Having a third, impartial judge when he and Dean raced the motel parking lots. Their Dad hardly ever has to step in anymore.

Having someone to play with in the backseat. Castiel was really good at cowboys and Indian toy soldiers, but totally stupid at things like marbles and pick-up sticks.

And there are things Sam didn’t expect, like having someone around who didn’t give him sneering, judgy looks when he wanted to try salad at the diner.

Someone who actually _wanted_ to try every salad with him.

Someone who deflected Dean’s moods when he was being a jerk.

Someone Sam could pick on when Dean was being a jerk (but Sam could never keep it up for very long).

Someone to verse in spelling bees. Sam usually loses, which makes him really angry in the beginning, until Castiel offers to teach him. Once John learns of this, it takes Sam and Castiel’s joined powers to convince John they still need to attend a public school. Dean ignores them for three days after this betrayal, but Sam would have gone crazy if he never saw other kids and if he had to admit it, it was really nice occasionally being the smartest kid in the room.

On most days he forgets that one of his brothers is over a thousand years old and has an eidetic memory.

Castiel still helps Dean with his homework more than Sam thinks is fair and it’s a common point of argument that never gets old.

But Castiel is probably the coolest adopted brother ever because when it had all began, he convinced John to take them to the tattoo parlour as soon as the wound over Dean’s heart had healed.

They were the only six, seven and eleven year-olds in school with anti-possession ink, but the simple tattoos were enough to make most teachers look twice at their Dad. And to turn all the other kids green with jealousy.

It was awesome.

Castiel’s birthday becomes the day he joined their family; the day he killed Azazel.

The thing that killed their mother may be dead, but there are plenty of other things in the world hurting people.

And no matter what anyone says, they can never dissuade Castiel from his belief that the apocalypse is still coming.

It becomes the elephant in the room and for one particular fortnight during their second Christmas together, Sam worries his six-year old brother has depression. After hours of pleading and promises of pie on Christmas morning, Dean steps in. Three hours later, Sam learns the thing that will make Castiel feel better are the list of rules as long as his arm to help them mitigate the apocalypse.

This, for some reason, includes testing every girl who takes an interest in Sam with rock salt water and silver. He doesn’t get it (and he doesn’t resent it until puberty), but, whatever will keep Castiel from staring at him like the end of the world is in his face.

The list also includes a requisite ratio of time John has to be around. In the rules that become their codex over the years, John’s not allowed to go away for more than a week at a time. As they grow older, John still goes hunting and the trips grow longer, until Sam himself puts his foot down because Dean and Castiel almost burn down their motel after their Dad is away for a month and misses Dean’s thirteenth birthday.

But for the most part, the three boys manage between them. They all take turns being the responsible adult and with Castiel’s seemingly bottomless knowledge bank, John always comes back alive.

John builds a reputation through his survival record. Even on the most obscure cases, John Winchester always finds a way and gets home in time for Christmas. People ask him how he knows, where he learns, and he credits it all to research. He’s going to protect his boys and if he has his way, nobody is ever going to find out he has a former angel under his arm.

Dean takes up acoustic guitar, Sam forms a primary school debating team, and Castiel becomes the fastest sprinter in his class. He doesn’t tell anyone he used to be an angel of the Lord.

John tries to keep his boys away from scrutiny for as long as possible and once Dean hits thirteen, he takes him hunting for the first time in apology for missing his birthday.

It’s an angry ghost, it should be standard fare, but Dean comes back with burns on his shoulder and his brothers ramp up their training. John has a rule about waiting until the boys are thirteen, but Castiel won’t be left at home when Sam comes of age, so Castiel is barely into high school the first time the four of them go hunting.

Castiel is like a commander in the battlefield, the smallest and most obnoxious of them all. Sam sticks at his side, foiling the wendigo’s escape and when John and Dean take it down, it’s so clean, so easy that it’s almost frightening.

John knocks Castiel’s ego down a notch before he takes them hunting again.

“No matter how much you know, you live under _my_ roof and you’ll stay put when you’re told! You follow my orders, understand?”

Castiel never learns to call John ‘Dad’; at least not that Sam overhears. Sam thinks there’s too much baggage there.

“… Yes, Sir.”

At the time, Sam hovers behind his Dad’s shoulder, pointing at their codex on the section of the seven sins. It’s (mostly) a joke, but Castiel skips the next day of school to make penance for his pride and Dean calls unfair play when he’s not allowed to stay back with him.

They never set down roots, as though their Dad doesn’t know what to do but chase this path he led for six years investigating the thing that killed their Mom. Castiel’s told his brothers their Dad was a soldier in the war before they were born. Castiel says he was a warrior, too, and he understands that duty – the restlessness – never leaves you once you’ve served and witnessed people suffer. Die.

Dean is eighteen when Castiel leads them to the Harvelle Roadhouse one dry, summer night.

William and John end their sour introductions by drinking each other under the table. It’s long after all the other patrons have left that the shot glass falls from John’s hand and he passes out beside William on the table.

Ellen takes pity on the three boys left at a loss for what to do that evening when there’s no hope of their Dad steering them toward a motel. While the men snore into their arms, she introduces the boys to her spare accommodation and they collapse in their first real beds in over a week.

In the morning, they meet Ellen’s daughter, Jo, over pancakes at the bar. She’s a wiry thing, with pale blond hair like her Dad and heavy dark eyes that follow them until they take their stools beside her.

Their fathers are still snoring at their table, so the boys settle in and Castiel spills half the maple syrup on his jeans. They’re all laughing by the point Sam snatches the jug to stop Castiel from scooping the syrup back in. Jo convinces Castiel to scrape the syrup onto his pancakes instead.

The Harvelle Roadhouse becomes their base for a while.

For almost two years, Jo, Sam, Dean and Castiel grow up together, in and out of each other’s lives for no more than a month at a time.

They eat together, train together, trade stories about school, and have boxing matches in the boys’ room while mounted on each other’s shoulders. It always starts with Sam and Jo versus Dean and Castiel, but by the end of the night they’ve exchanged duelling partners, at least one person’s banged their head on the bunks, and Ellen’s ordered them to bed no less than three times.

Years later, some of Sam’s fondest memories beside the rare baseball games are those late nights on each other’s shoulders or the private concerts on the Roadhouse bar to the soundtrack of the jukebox.

He thinks that’s when Jo fell in love with his brother, tearing with laughter as Dean skidded across the bench top on his knees playing air guitar. Sam can tell how pleased Dean is to make her laugh and it goes on like that for a while.

Jo and Dean smile like they share a secret, laugh too abruptly and loud at each other’s jokes and Castiel snorts when Sam nudges him in the arm. Ellen’s never far away, so Jo and Dean stay in their binary orbit for a while, always hovering, never quite touching, and though Dean never says as much, Sam knows he wants to.

But their families’ alliance started with their fathers and it ends the same way.

John and William are hunting an encroaching nest of vampires when their prey gets the drop on them. They come back, but William’s in a wheelchair for the rest of his life and John’s gun arm will never be what it was.

They’re quiet and there’s grimness in his Dad’s face that Sam hasn’t seen since he was a child, but the lines of guilt are deep and familiar. Ellen rejects his offer of help and though Jo tells them to leave, she still cries when John turns his back and leads his sons from that second home.

Sam knows people lash out when they’re hurting, but he still believes their families will get through it to pull together again, but the years go by without word from the Harvelles. Sam doesn’t know if Dean ever forgives Jo for blaming their father. They never talk about it.

It’s when Sam turns eighteen that he overhears Castiel’s quiet admission to their father that he might not be able to stop the apocalypse. Ever since they were children, Castiel had always said things like, “don’t curse the bully, or you could go to hell and start the apocalypse!” to keep them in line and, slowly, Sam’s learned of the prophecy behind his words.

About the righteous man breaking in hell and setting in line a course of events that would unleash Lucifer on the world.

Castiel was from that time. Another future, another world.

The rules changed when the angels sent Castiel back in time with all his memories intact. Gabriel set some new parameters when he slipped the archangel’s sword into his pocket.

Now that Castiel’s older, he talks more about the future: the one he came from and that they’re trying to avoid. Once every while Sam can see it still upsets him enough to keep him up at night. He’s been sharing a room with Castiel since he was six, so he knows better than any of them.

But John Winchester and his sons are not the only righteous men in the world. And if Castiel can keep his family out of hell, it will be another man who breaks the first seal.

So, they wait and train and Castiel prays to his first father, whose face he never saw, that the apocalypse never comes.

Dean is twenty-four, Sam is twenty and Castiel has just turned nineteen.

Sam and Castiel were supposed to start college four months ago, six states over.

It’s been six months since they’ve heard from their Father and Dean’s been driving them coast-to-coast on the slightest hint of a lead for John or his latest prey: the demon named Lilith.

But Sam is fucking car sick and he’s not going to be quiet about it.

“If she’s so bad, I don’t know why we can’t stab her in the face to avoid the apocalypse altogether?”

“In the face,” Dean snorts, eyes on the road and he rolls the toothpick between his teeth.

“Dad took your sword,” Sam says, “Couldn’t it work?”

Castiel is in the backseat, books and balled up burger wrappings strewn over the seat. He looks up from his tabloid magazine and the filthy look he gives Sam is completely unwarranted.

“Do you want to leave him to find out by himself?”

“You think you’re going to find the alternative solution in the weekly gossip?” Sam gives his reading material a significant look, sneering when his brother’s eyes narrow.

“We shouldn’t kill her,” Castiel says with finality and turns the page of his magazine. “If you ever remembered anything I told you, you wouldn’t need to ask.”

“We’re stopping for lunch, ladies,” Dean announces and Sam glances over his shoulder, spotting the service station the faded sign of the diner less than two kilometres away.

“If they don’t have something unprocessed, I could throw up on you,” Sam says.

Dean’s look is incredulous. “What the hell is up with you today? Is it your time of the month?”

“If I knew without doubt that the sword worked, I’d stab Lilith in the face myself,” Castiel says.

The quiet, bitter way it sounds like it’s wrangled from him catches Sam’s attention, but Castiel’s leafing through his magazine again; a lasting impression of Jo’s influence. It was his unspoken habit when trying to calm down. Sam wonders if his brother’s heard something through the grape vine.

“There’s got to be something else we can do,” Sam says, feeling nauseous and helpless.

“We’re going to find a cage that can hold her and throw away the key,” Castiel says.

Dean makes a noise of interest and he glances at Castiel in the rear-view mirror.

“Did you find something?”

Castiel shrugs. “I might have an idea.”

“Well, anytime you feel like sharing with the class,” Sam rolls his eyes and slumps back in his seat.

“Put your seatbelt on,” Castiel mutters, behind him.

Dean glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Or anytime you feel like flexing your brain, we could use another one of your visions right now.”

Sam double takes and settles for gaping at their driver.

“Dude, you’re encouraging me? Last time it happened, you shoved Cas’ holy cocktail down my throat and I almost drowned! No thanks.”

“We shouldn’t encourage these visions,” Castiel says and Sam grimaces because Castiel’s leaped forward, magazine braced in the gap between his brothers in the front seat, “Sam, you wouldn’t hide your visions from us, would you? It could help us, but… the cocktails are for your own good.”

Sam tries to smile for him, “That’s real Catholic of you to say.”

“Bitch,” Castiel recoils to his back seat.

“Priest,” Sam says.

“Dudes, we’re here!” Dean announces, before Castiel can snap back, and he sounds hugely relieved as he pulls the Impala up beside the gas pump.

He inherited the car when he was eighteen, just as Castiel had promised all those years ago.

“Why doesn’t one of you grab a table at the diner?”

Sam’s out of the car before Dean’s even turned the key off in the ignition.

“If you meet any blondes, wait for us and don’t make eye contact,” Castiel calls after him, quoting rule number eighteen from the codex above the sub-sections ‘Meg’ and ‘Ruby’: initial encounters.

Sam had a thing for blondes, he couldn’t fight nature.

He shakes his head, but keeps walking, “I wouldn’t want you stabbing anyone in the face.”

The gravel crunches noisily under his boots, but he still hears Dean’s closing comment.

“You know he would!”

Sam smirks to himself, knowing Castiel will react to that in his predictable way of asking Dean who had the greatest moral fibre between them; it always degraded to a gross banter of either who had the messiest kills or sexual encounters and Sam made a point of leaving the room at both topics.

Castiel always won after that time he’d started removing Dean’s clothes and ever since, Dean had never been game enough to press past a certain point.

Sam was sort of proud of Cas for that in a disturbed sort of way and it never failed to make him laugh. They kept each other laughing, no matter what the cost, long after the joke had died.

He’d been wondering for a long time what sort of a freak he was, but in the context of his brothers, the freakishness was almost normal.

And these freaks were going to save their father; wherever he was, whether he wanted their help or not.

**LE FIN**  



End file.
